My restlessness grew by the second. Just when I thought I had my nerves under control, Francesco led me to his shiny black Bugatti. Seeing him behind the wheels of that rocket on wheels did strange things to me. I kept staring at his confident grip on the wheel awed by the way he maneuvered deftly through the traffic.
Certainly, he caught me staring. The last thing I wanted was to boost his overgrown ego but I failed miserably at this task...
"This is the place." Francesco motioned with his chin at the large glass revolving doors, the entrance of his new restaurant.
He quickly pulled over, got out swiftly from the car, walked briskly round, opened my door and helped me out of the car. I thought he would release my hand right after that, but he kept holding it, intertwining our fingers as we walked. All the employees bowed as we passed by as if we were some kind of royalty deserving their utmost respect. I felt awkward and cringed each time it happened. Francesco seemed used to this treatment.
We passed the long hall with wall-to-ceiling windows on each side. The floors were covered with dark stone while all the furniture was wooden–a slightly cosy, modern interior, more masculine than feminine.
Two guards opened the large doors at the end of the corridor, revealing a smaller, more private hall with a table set in the middle. We walked inside and met a chubby man in a white chef apron. The man instantly rushed towards Francesco, spreading his arms wide and engulfing Francesco in a bear hug.
"È bello vederti amico," he gushed.
Francesco beamed a warm smile at him and pulled me closer to his side. "This is my good friend, Ricci Rossi," he said. "Ricci, this is my fianceé, Stephanie McMahon."
"It's my pleasure to meet you," Ricci grinned, slightly bowing his head.
I glanced at Francesco before replying. "Il piacere è mio."
The chef raised an astonished brow and chuckled. "You speak Italian?"
"Not as much as I'd like to...but yes," I replied with a nervous chuckle.
Ricci wasn't the only one surprised by my words. I could guess the report Francesco got on me had not made any mention that I'd been learning Italian for a few years. His confusion lasted a brief moment and the look was suddenly replaced by a smile. "My Stephanie is full of surprises."
My cheeks flushed. Why did I keep feeling like a teenager who met her first crush?
Ricci nodded and showed us to the table in the centre of the room. "Take your seats. I'll bring food in a moment."
He rushed to the swinging doors at the left and then stopped suddenly. He looked over his shoulder straight at me–
"You're not allergic to seafood, are you?" he grinned.
I chuckled and shook my head. "I'm not. I love seafood!"
"Perfettamente!" he exclaimed gleefully, clasping his hands before he disappeared behind the doors.
Francesco led me to the table. "I think he likes you," he smirked, pulling a chair for me to sit.
"He looks quite a cheerful person," I observed with a satisfied smile.
"He's an excellent cook, too," Francesco added as he moved to his side of the table. "And good with knives."
I froze for a moment and recovered myself quickly. I wondered how Francesco knew that and why he said it now.
A second passed and a waiter emerged through the doors Ricci had disappeared, carrying a silver tray with appetizers. I looked around the restaurant hall surrounded by glass, wood and plants, and where we were the only customers. If any other man had taken me to a place like this, I would have thought it was a date. But I wondered what it meant to Francesco.
I was certain this was what his regular meals looked like. People like him loved luxury and extravagance. Besides, this place belonged to him. It wouldn't be awkward if he were here, eating alone, in this private hall every day.
For me, however, this was special–a nearly perfect not-date.
"Do you like it here?" Francesco's gentle voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
A chuckle escaped me. "Um...yes. This place is beautiful...soothing."
His eyes searched mine. "Yeah. I thought it might help you relax...after what happened at your workshop."
My heart tripped at his words. "That's so thoughtful of you," I stuttered helplessly. "And thank you...for coming to my rescue...again." I smiled nervously and reached for a glass of water, suddenly feeling a dryness in my mouth.
He leaned back in his seat. "You shouldn't thank me. I should have known Marco would try to get to you. Luckily, Buzo spotted him and his men in time."
I nodded. "Still, you could have just sent your men. You didn't have to–"
"I had to be there," he challenged.
"Why?" I challenged back.
His stormy eyes fixed on me. "Because you are mine to protect."
My heart lurched once more, driven by my never-failing idiocy. I was always a sucker for such statements. I knew better than to overinterpret his words. He needed to keep me alive. Currently, I was his key to the Giacomo family fortune. And yet, those words had awakened all the butterflies in my stomach.
I cleared my throat and pulled a strand of hair behind my ear. "Well, I guess it was my fault. I should never have let Buzo leave the workshop in the first place.
"Thankfully, he didn't go far."
"Yeah," I breathed, shifting my gaze to my plate.
"Buzo told me you're spending a lot of time painting recently."
His words slightly caught me off guard. I raised my eyes and saw pure curiosity in his. "Well, I needed to create new works and sell them," I explained.
A hint of amusement appeared. "In ten days you'd be married to a billionaire, you still really think you'd need to work to earn money?"
I straightened in my seat. "It would all still be your money, not mine. I cannot use your money for my personal–"
"Why not?" he raised a brow. "Most women in your place would. Wouldn't it be natural to just spend it?"
I took the glass of water to my lips again. "You should have known, I'm not most women."
The smile curving his lips was sin-worthy. "You certainly are not."
I hurriedly drank more than half of the glass, desperate to cool down the heat his smile triggered. Then I summoned my composure and chuckled. "I guess I still feel nervous about you paying for all my expenses."
"So...should I charge you for rent?" he asked with a chuckle, finding my concerns amusing.
"Please, don't," I muttered. "I don't think I would ever afford it even if I sold all of my works and both kidneys."
That earned me his breathy chuckle. "Selling your kidneys won't be necessary...but if you insist, there could always be another way to pay me." He dragged his teeth over his lower lip.
My irritation sparkled in an instant. "Seriously?"
"You started this yourself," he said in defense, raising his hands. "I was only mentioning one of the possibilities." A savage glint suddenly appeared in his eyes.
I drew a deep breath, trying my best to ignore his intense gaze. "Look, my mother worked three jobs to take care of me and she never relied on anyone but herself. I was taught to do the same. I need some kind of financial independence. I'm not naive enough to think that this arrangement between us will last forever."
His eyes narrowed. "We're not married yet and you're already thinking about divorcing me?"
"Not thinking about it, but preparing myself," I corrected.
He traced his lower lip with his thumb and it was a struggle not to imagine those lush lips colliding with mine. "And what if we draw up a prenup that guaranteed you money in case of a divorce?"
"I would still want to paint and sell my paintings," I told him.
His eyes remained on me as if he was trying to read me, to find some hidden meaning behind my words. When he stayed silent, I asked, "Or is Don's wife not allowed to paint and do art stuff?"
"Even if other heads made such a rule, you'll still be allowed to do whatever you want as my wife," he said.
I shook my head. "Not according to Vincenzo."
He leaned back in his seat and clicked his tongue. "Vincenzo is an old fool. He keeps questioning everything I do, convincing me that I should actike a true Giacomo and forget that I was the son of Cassius Stanley."
My brows knitted. "Why do you keep someone like that by your side?"
"I owe Vincenzo my life...literally," he replied solemnly. His voice was suddenly cold and grave.
My chest tightened. "Did...somebody try to kill you."
A nod. "My parents were assassinated when I was eight. And I was supposed to die with them."
I swallowed. "And Vincenzo saved you then?"
"He did," he said simply with a nod and a distant look in his eyes.
I bit the inner side of my cheek. I wanted so badly to ask Francesco about more details from this night.
"Were the assassins found?" I asked instead.
"My grandfather's men found them." A grim smirk pulled at the corners of his lips and faded. "But the one who planned it was never punished."
"Were you looking for the one responsible?" I asked.
Francesco drew a long breath. "I know who was responsible. I just never found a way to prove it."
"So," I said slowly, daring to ask. "Who was it?"
"My uncle, my mother's older brother," he replied, his eyes flaring with rage as he spat the name, "Dante Puccini."