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My eyes fly open as a rush of my arousal coats Dante’s hand. Rather than feeling horrified, the thought of doing something as decadent as ordering dessert while he touches me beneath the table sends a thrill through me.
I brace myself as the waiter approaches us, squeezing Dante’s hand hard. My eyes threaten to roll back as Dante simultaneously hits sensitive spots, but I force my lids to remain open and my eyes focused, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip even as my thighs shake with an impending release.
Suddenly, the restaurant doors burst open with a resounding thud. Both Dante and the waiter freeze, and I want to scream in frustration at how close I was before realizing that we have company.
I whip my head toward the entrance to see two burly men stride in, their guttural conversation in Gaelic filling the previously quiet space.
They’re dressed similarly to Dante—expensive suits sans ties, revealing tattooed chests adorned with gleaming silver necklaces. They move with an air of entitled ownership, one sporting a shock of blond hair, the other bald with a star tattoo etched on the side of his face.
Dante tenses around me, and a chill of foreboding slithers down my back as he slowly withdraws his fingers from me. I watch, still dazed with arousal, as he meticulously wipes his hand on a napkin. His lips brush my temple in a soft kiss, but his whisper carries an unfamiliar edge. “I’m truly sorry, baby.” His voice is tight, laced with an emotion I can’t quite decipher.
“Um. It’s okay,” I mumble, mildly confused.
Just moments ago, Dante was ready to bring me to climax in front of a waiter, and now two strangers who haven’t even glanced our way have completely transformed him. I steal a puzzled glance at Dante, watching his playful demeanor evaporate like mist and replaced by a cold, calculating look I’ve never witnessed before.
Dante’s eyes lock onto the waiter, giving him an imperceptible nod. The waiter instantly changes course and approaches the newcomers with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The two Irishmen boldly saunter deeper into the room. I have a feeling they would have made a beeline for us if not for the waiter’s interception.
Dante suddenly pulls a nearby chair close, and the legs scrape harshly against the marble floor. I jump at the sound, my nerves already on edge. With smooth, controlled movements, he transfers me onto the seat, then drops another quick kiss on my temple.
“You’ll be fine, Addy, I promise,” he murmurs absently, then leans back in his chair, picks up his wine glass, and takes a casual sip, as if he’s settling in to watch some anticipated drama unfold. He does all this without sparing me a glance; if he had, he would have seen my eyes wide with confusion and growing alarm.
What is happening right now?
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the waiter greets, his tone carefully neutral. “I’m afraid the restaurant is closed to the public tonight.”
The blond man smirks, his gaze sweeping the near-empty restaurant. “Really? Ah, that’s a bloody shame right there. We was also thinking of bringin’ our sluts here tonight, y’see. But we’ll have to come back another time, eh?”
Dante’s hand tightens around his wine glass, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. I can almost hear the crystal straining under the pressure.
“Of course, sir,” the waiter replies, though his voice wavers slightly. “If you’ll follow me, I can arrange a reservation for you.” He gestures toward the entrance, attempting to guide them, but the men continue to look around, blatantly ignoring us.
“It’s an old-time classic isn’t it? Thirsty Irish bitch panting after some Italian dog,” the tattooed one spits in Gaelic, his voice a low, guttural rumble while his companion barks out a derisive laugh.
I flinch at the crude words, but what shocks me more is Dante’s reaction. His eyes flash with unmistakable recognition, and a cold, predatory snarl curls his lips, transforming his handsome features into something dangerous and alien.
The men turn to follow the waiter, oblivious to the storm brewing in Dante.
My stomach churns with unease. How does Dante understand Gaelic? Before I can voice my question, Dante suddenly rises from his seat with a fluid grace that belies the tension simmering beneath the surface.
“You know, my woman and I were just leaving,” he says icily in English, but he deliberately thickens his Italian accent. “Perhaps you’d like to take our place?”
The men’s gazes dart between Dante and each other, their expressions hardening. They take a few steps closer, still conversing in guttural Gaelic. The atmosphere crackles with palpable animosity.
Without warning, Dante yanks my chair backward. He positions himself between me and the table, and a sinking feeling settles in my gut as I realize Dante fully intends to fight these burly men.
“Dante, please, don’t!” I hiss, but he ignores me. His hand grips my shoulder, firm but not painful.
“Just stay behind me, Addy,” he says curtly, his voice low and tight.
In a blur of motion, Dante overturns our table. The crash of shattering plates and glasses is deafening. My eyes widen in horror as a gun materializes in his hand. The other two men draw their weapons, and suddenly the air explodes with gunshots.
I scream as my body moves on autopilot, scrambling away, darting from under one table to the next. Finally, far enough from the chaos, I grab onto the polished wood of the table leg, eyes screwed shut as the acrid smell of gunpowder mingles with the rich aroma of Italian cuisine, creating a nauseating contrast that makes my stomach roil.
And then it’s over. Blessed silence descends on the restaurant once more. I hazard a peek from my hiding place, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I see Dante standing in the middle of the chaos, his stance wide. He cracks his neck from side to side as if releasing pent-up tension.
The two Irish men lie sprawled on the floor, their bodies eerily still, dark blood pooling around their heads. Their eyes vacant, while neat holes decorate their foreheads and their chests.
