Page 37 of Ruined By Protection
"I've never been," Lucrezia chimes in. "Is it as weird as they say?"
A small laugh escapes me. "Parts of it, yes. But it's a beautiful city."
"And what did you do there?" Enzo asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
"I was a bartender," I say, deciding honesty is my best approach. "At The Remington Hotel."
Sienna tilts her head slightly. "Was?"
I swallow hard. "Yes. I... got married. My husband didn't want me working."
A heavy silence falls over the table. I can feel their eyes on me, searching for the things I'm not saying.
"And now you're here," Damiano states, his gaze intense.
"Yes."
Before he can ask anything else, the dining room door opens and Matteo strides in. His dark eyes immediately find mine and for a second I forget how to breathe. He's wearing a tailored navy suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders, and his face is set in hard lines.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, taking the empty seat across from me. "Security issue at the casino."
"Nothing serious, I hope," Damiano says.
Matteo shakes his head. "Nothing we can't handle."
CHAPTER 11
Matteo
Itake my seat across from Hazel, feeling the weight of the day settling into my shoulders. The casino security issue was minor, just a drunk tourist making threats.
"Here he is, our resident food snob," Noah says, smirking as he raises his wine glass. "Did you have to send back the security guard's coffee because it wasn't single-origin Ethiopian?"
The table erupts in laughter. I roll my eyes but can't help the slight twitch of my lips. Noah's been giving me shit about my particular tastes since forever.
"Some of us have standards, Rivera," I fire back, reaching for the wine. The bottle is a Brunello di Montalcino—at least Damiano knows how to set a proper table.
"Standards?" Noah snorts. "Is that what we're calling it now? Remember when he made that chef in Miami cry because the risotto was—what did you call it, Matteo?"
"An insult to my ancestors," I mutter, pouring myself a generous glass.
"An insult to my ancestors!" Noah repeats with dramatic flair. "The man nearly quit his job."
Lucrezia giggles. "It's not just food. Remember that girl in Milan who wore the wrong perfume? I thought Matteo was going to break out in hives."
"She smelled like a department store." I defend myself, feeling the familiar rhythm of family dinner banter washing over me. "And her laugh was irritating."
"Matteo's the same with his women as he is with his food," Noah explains to Hazel, who's watching our exchange with wide eyes. "Particular to the point of insanity."
I look up then, directly into Hazel's eyes. Those eyes—hazel with amber flecks that catch the light. The same eyes that watched me with such intensity as I moved inside her.
She looks away immediately, a flush creeping up her neck. Her fingers fidget with the stem of her untouched wine glass.
I don't need to see her eyes to remember them. They've been burned into my memory for three years—the way they darkened when I touched her, how they squeezed shut when she came, how they softened in the aftermath. I memorized every detail of her face that night, cataloged every expression, every sound.
"You're being uncharacteristically quiet, Matteo," Zoe observes, her perceptive gaze moving between Hazel and me. "Tough day?"
I clear my throat. "Nothing I couldn't handle."
