Page 45 of Tainted Princess
When I was finally able to drag my eyes up to his face again—his stupidly handsome face—I found he was looking at me with disdain.
“Like what you see, babe?”
“I—”
“Tell you what. Why don’t you go shopping?”
“I don’t reallygoshopping, Enzo.” I said, crossing my own arms.
“I can tell. But maybe you should,” he replied condescendingly. “Why don’t you take that shiny new credit card I set you up with and hit the mall. Buy yourself some big girl clothes, something worth looking at,” he said coldly, and I watched as his eyes darkened, any good will we had generated between us suddenly nowhere to be found. “Maybe if you wore something besides those old lady sweaters all the time, your gramps wouldn’t have had to sell you off just to get you married.”
My mouth popped open in shock, but before I could come up with a snappy comeback, the bathroom door was slammed in my face, leaving me filled with rage and no outlet.
Because there was no way in hell I was about to open that door and see Enzo naked. I was not prepared for what the sight of him would do to me. Neither my brain nor my libido could take it.
So, conceding the point for now, I stormed out of the apartment, making sure everyone I passed knew just how pissed off I was and what a terrible idea it would be to get in my way.
Because right now, I could use a fight, and when I found one, I’d make sure my wolf came out on top.
* * * *
After driving my fabulous new vehicle around for an hour or so—finally able to listen to whatever the hell I wanted on the radio—I found my way back toPeccati Di Gola,sitting by myself in one of the cushy booths with another glass of thePuni Albain front of me—this time only a single. I had placed my lunch order but spent the entire time watching the waiter from yesterday as he lumbered around the restaurant.
The kid was huge, at least as tall as Enzo, meaning well over six feet, with hulking shoulders and thick arms. I watched as he moved around the building, his large frame making it difficult for him to navigate the narrow spaces between the tables as he carried plates and glasses to his customers. At one point, he delivered a couple of dishes to a pair of businessmen sitting near the kitchen door, but as he went to step back from the table, he collided with the chair of the lady behind him. When his momentum caused the woman jerk forward, she then spilled her wine glass, soaking both her shirt and the plate of salad in front of her. The woman let out a shriek of indignation, drawing the attention of a man from the kitchen. He was dressed in a suit, and years of hanging around my own family’s restaurants let me know that he was most likely the manager—Emilio, if he was who was mentioned yesterday.
It didn’t take long for Emilio to start laying into the kid, and I watched again as his shoulders hunched even farther inward, the shame coating his cheeks and ears in crimson. But it was his eyes that gave him away. The more the manager yelled at him, the more the kids’ eyes burned with barely suppressed rage.
It was fascinating to watch.
I stared openly when the suit guy finally threw his hands in the air and shouted “You’re done. Fired. Outta here.” The kid stared open-mouthed for a moment, then, with a defeated sigh, he turned and headed for the kitchen, reappearing a short moment later, apron free and carrying his jacket. He stomped through the dining room, heading my direction as he made his way to the door.
Before he passed my booth, I reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm. He froze, the shock evident on his face as he looked at me.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” I said, gesturing to the bench across the table from me. He looked back toward the kitchen door, but Emilio was nowhere in sight. He hesitated again, and I smiled, inclining my head at the seat a second time before he finally accepted and sat heavily.
“What’s your name?” I asked, signaling the bartender for a second glass of the whiskey.
“Vinnie. I mean, I’m Vincent, ma’am.”
I nodded. “Vincent, my name is Francesca. Thank you for joining me.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, Vincent’s hands clenched on the table before him as he continued to dart his eyes around the room. I knew he was looking for threats, whatever form those might take. Right now, it was most likely Emilio and his angry words.
When the bartender set the glass on the table in front of me, I drained the last of the first glass, handing him the empty.
“How old are you, Vincent?”
“Twenty-one, ma’am.”
I raised my eyebrow at him, sliding the fresh glass across the table.
“Francesca,” I stated, not that I thought it would do any good. Vincent was raised with manners, and even though I had barely two years on him, I had a feeling being called ma’am was something I was gonna have to get used to.
Vincent looked around again before he unclenched his hands and accepted the glass with a nod. He lifted it to his lips, taking a cautious sniff before drinking down a hefty swallow. I hid my grin as his face twisted with distaste.
“Yeah,” I said when he lowered the glass to the table and slid it back my way. “It takes some getting used to.”
We lapsed into silence again, and I simply watched him. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they handled uncomfortable silences, and Vincent impressed me with his ability to let the quiet reign. He felt no need to fill the emptiness with inane chatter and I appreciated that quality more than he could know.
