Page 22 of Forging Caine

She took a deep breath as we approached the stairs—eight feet wide, carpeted in a cream shade, and open to the restaurant on one side. Her breath released in a shuddering exhale. “This isn’t at all how I expected our first night to go.”

I paused mid-step, and she came to an abrupt halt. Placing one hand against her glorious cheek, I pressed my lips to her opposite one. I held my lips there, inhaling her scent, forcing her to slow down. “At least we’re together again, amore.”

Her lids fluttered closed and she curled her face into my hand, kissing my palm. No words came, but her free hand pressed against mine on her face.

There was no telling which of the day’s events were wearing on her the most. Perhaps it was all of them, but clearly I’d failed in my attempt to distract her.

“It’s been so boring without you,” I said.

She chuckled and pulled my hand away. “Tell me we’ve got this.”

“You’ve got this, Samantha Caine. I’m just here for my looks.”

She snorted, some of the stress finally melting away. “And the comedic relief.”

“I do what I can.” I gestured up the stairs to where the maître d’ waited. “Andiamo. We have dessert to enjoy.”

Enjoywould be a stretch, but it was the best option to keep her feet moving. Normally, she was the one hauling me behind her into a dangerous situation. What would she do if I insisted we go home? Perhaps that would get her moving even faster, and with less thought—never a good thing.

The tables upstairs were far more private, some looking over a balcony to see the diners on the main floor, others tucked away in quiet alcoves. The chef’s room stood at the end, a glass wall separating it from the dining area, another glass wall on the other side to overlook the kitchen.

Flanking the door, there was something rarely seen here: Two dark-haired, olive-skinned behemoths in perfectly tailored black suits.

Samantha squeezed my hand. She must have recognized the same one I did. She’d called him Bodyguard Two at first, but we later knew him as Jason. He’d been on the boat that rescued us from the grotto where Samantha injured her ankle and had flown the helicopter which delivered us to the mainland after the doctor saw her.

She didn’t know, however, that he was the one who secured Fiori’s theft of the fresco from my worksite in Pompeii, nor that he was undercover for my Zio Giovanni.

Inside the room, Pasquale Fiori stood at the kitchen wall, observing the movements of those preparing meals.

The maître d’ opened the door and Fiori spun to see us, spreading his arms wide. In his mid-60s with gray hair, he had a surprisingly kind face for such a dangerous man.

“My friends,” he said, approaching Samantha to kiss the air at her cheeks. “You’re looking much healthier than the last time I saw you.”

Samantha smiled and stepped aside. “Not needing crutches is a significant improvement.”

“And Antonio.” He took my right hand to shake, and patted my upper arm, hard enough it stung the spot where I’d been shot at New Year’s. Intentional? Or simply friendly? “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”

The maître d’ pulled out a chair and offered it to Samantha, who sat at the table large enough for six. A short vase of white roses and hydrangea topped the white tablecloth, with two empty glasses at each of our seats. Once Fiori and I sat, we received dessert menus.

Fiori inclined his head toward a bottle of white wine on the table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I chose a moscato to enjoy with the food.”

“Grazie, that sounds wonderful,” I said. My uncle believed Fiori had poisoned him two years ago. At least this bottle had been closed when we arrived.

The maître d’ opened the bottle and poured for each of us, then addressed Fiori. “How long would you like before your server arrives?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

The man nodded and left, closing the glass door behind him. The bodyguards stepped closer to each other, making it clear the door was not an option for anyone inside or outside of the room. It was as though the room had shrunk significantly.

The private room was decorated like the rest of the restaurant, all white with neoclassical Greek influences and smaller versions of the paintings on the walls. One pendant light lit the table, while two candles flickered on either side of the roses.

This would have been an exceptionally romantic place to bring Samantha.

Movement from the kitchen below interrupted the quiet ambiance, but no doubt it would fade into the background the longer we sat. Sì, a nice, quiet meal alone together. Perhaps tomorrow.

“I was surprised to get your call, Signore Fiori.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Come now, we talked about this. It’s Pasquale. Friends don’t use titles.”

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