Page 5 of Claimed by my Stepbrother

I clear my throat and say, “I’ll be more attentive to your needs and you’ll have a good time. I promise.”

“Starting tonight,” she nods.

“Yes, starting tonight.”

Arturo pulls up to the front door of the bistro and exits the car. A few moments pass and Gabby asks, “Where did he go? Are we waiting for something?”

“He’s just letting the staff know that we’re here so they’ll have our table ready,” I tell her this and it is partly true. I just leave out the fact that he’s also checking the crowd to make sure it’s safe for me—for us— to enter the building. There are enemies everywhere and one can never be too careful.

Arturo returns to the car and opens the door for me. I step out, take Gabby by the arm, and escort her inside where the owner of the bistro is waiting. He embraces me, then her, as he smiles from ear to ear.

“Don Gallucci, thank you for honoring us with your presence. I have a nice table in the back for you,” he tells me and leads us to a quaint corner table where a chilled bottle of wine is waiting.

“What did he call you? Don? What does that mean?” Gabby asks me.

“A Don is a person of high importance. I’m considered, well, a leader in the community so they present me with the title.”

“That’s interesting. You mean like in the mafia movies?” she smirks and I pat her hand.

“You Americans love your movies, don’t you?”

We’re approached by a nervous, young waiter. I can feel the terror coming off him in shaky waves of body heat as he pours us each a glass of wine. Gabby notices his behavior and watches him with an obvious sense of bewilderment. He sets the bottle back in the ice bucket and scurries away from the table, but I snap my fingers and call him back.

“Yes, Don Gallucci. Is everything alright? Is something amiss?” his voice quivers, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“No, son,” I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of cash. Filtering through it, I take a bill and press it into his palm. “Come back with an assortment of appetizers. Just tell the chef that it’s for me. He’ll know what to do.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy attempts to put a smile on his pale face and rushes away.

“That was nice of you. I’ve never met anyone who tips before the meal,” Gabby says.

“He seemed a bit awkward. I thought I’d give him a little motivation.”

I gaze around the dining room and see that all eyes are on me. Some of the diners avert their glances while others raise their glasses and nod in my direction.

“Does everyone here know you?” Gabby asks, watching the interaction.

I lift my wine glass and tap it against hers, “Yes, they do.”

The waiter returns, balancing a large tray on his shoulder. On it is an assortment of sausage and spinach stuffed mushrooms, baked meatballs, zucchini caprese rolls, socca, herb-crusted tomatoes, and goat cheese marinara.

“These are all of my favorite appetizers. I want you to try them all,” I tell Gabby.

“It all looks and smells amazing,” she beams.

“This is what Northern Italian cuisine looks like. It’s light and aromatic, not drowned in the marinara.”

She looks down at her lap, and I belatedly realize that I may have offended her. Leaning forward and tipping her chin up, I say, “I want this to be fun for you. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t. I just feel a bit silly. That’s all. I thought I could make dinner and bring you a plate as a peace offering.”

“I would have eaten it. Even if it was terrible, I would have eaten it because you made it for me, but there’s no peace offering required. You and I are not at war, little girl. We’ll just call it a gross lack of communication and move on. I take all of the blame.”

“Okay, then. Moving on, tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, how old are you?”

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