Marrying the Mob Prince

Evie

I’m grateful my husband can wield chopsticks.Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

Was this a date?

It felt like one, with the dimmed lighting, the place settings, and the jitters turning my stomach.

Tony took me to a Michelin-star Japanese restaurant in the Leather District. I’d been dying to go to ever since Christian showed me photos of the food. We relaxed in a gracious room with a long counter topped with satiny wood. Behind the sushi bar, golden lights illuminated a warm brick wall. Small tables filled the other side.

Everything was perfect, especially Tony, ridiculously sexy in a white shirt and pair of slate dress pants that hugged his dense frame. His tousled black hair caressed his forehead with a casual grace that should’ve been made illegal.

Slivers of meat sat on balls of rice. They didn’t serve utensils, and I couldn’t be the only person who was hopeless with chopsticks.

My chopsticks scissored. Bits of rice and fish flew across the table, slapping the floor. Mortified, I covered my mouth.

“Oh my God. I’m awful.”

“Yeah, they ought to lock you up. Throwing four-dollar sashimi on the ground is criminal.”

“You’re making me feel bad!”

Tony’s smile teased warmth in my cheeks. He put another piece on my plate. “Try again.”

I did, mauling the sushi. “How do people eat with these?”

“The same way you use a fork. It’s not hard.”

“Says you. The only chopsticks I’ve ever used are the crappy wooden ones from takeout, and we always threw them out.”

Using his, he seized a single grain of rice and ate it.

I laughed. “Showoff.”

“I have to. I don’t have enough redeeming qualities.” He grasped my wrist, stopping me from mangling the sushi any further. “Here. Let me do it.”

“You’re feeding me?”

“No other choice.” He plucked the ball of rice and held it to my lips. “Open.”

Tingling swept up the back of my neck at the intimate gesture. I imagined him doing this at our wedding. The hope that’d crashed and died on that night rekindled into a low, burning flame. I schooled my thoughts, forcing myself to stay calm.

It doesn’t mean anything.

“Open up,” he prompted.

Feeling foolish, I obeyed.

Tony pushed the roll into my mouth, grinning. “Look at that, I’m feeding you. I guess we can get along.”

I closed my lips around slightly vinegary rice, biting into the red meat. Surprisingly, it wasn’t fishy. Salt rolled over my tongue, mingling with a buttery flavor.

Tony picked up another piece.

“You can’t do this for the whole plate.”

“I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

“Aren’t you embarrassed?”

“This doesn’t even rank in my top one hundred most shameful things I’ve ever done. If you’d known me a few years ago, you’d understand why. Do you like wasabi?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s Japanese horseradish.” He poked at a greenish lump beside the sushi. “Very potent. I’m not a huge fan. I think it overpowers the fish.”

“Don’t you want it to?”

“If your fish smells bad, you should run in the opposite direction. In general, all you need is a kiss of soy sauce.” He dabbed the white meat with silvery scales in the dark liquid. “This is yellowtail.”

He fed it to me.

I chewed, finding it milder than the tuna. Delicious. Savory and clean. The meat fell apart, dissolving just as easily as the rice. I grabbed another with my fingers and popped it in my mouth. I got too excited and sauce dripped down my lip.

Tony leaned forward. His full mouth pressed into mine. Then he flicked his tongue across my lip, catching that wayward drop. We exchanged kisses over the table like two kids at prom. The hardness of his kiss, his complete lack of self-awareness, the utter abandonment of giving a fuck left me burning.

I could’ve jumped him right there.

I closed my eyes, relishing in the flavors of savory decadence and Tony’s sweet mouth. “This is the best damned restaurant I’ve ever been to.”

He made a deeply satisfied sound.

“Yeah, I’m enjoying myself, too.”

My eyes flew open to Tony’s gentle smile as more sashimi prodded my lips. I ate, trying to conceal my shock. The fact he was totally into this stunned me. I assumed a man like him wouldn’t be caught dead hand-feeding his wife.

“I can eat on my own, you know.”

“And yet, you keep opening wide for me.” Tony quickly shoved a ball of rice in his mouth. “Makes a man wonder what else you’ll do in a crowded restaurant.”

“Don’t push it.”

He scooted his chair back and patted his leg.

He wanted me on his lap?

I gaped at him. “Are you crazy?”

“Are you that scared of PDA?”

“No, but…this is a nice place. They’ll kick us out if I sit on you.”

I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with Tony Costa, scourge of the Boston underworld.

“Only if we do naughty things, and I don’t plan on it.” Tony gave me a half-cocked smirk I didn’t entirely trust. “Come on. Indulge me.”

Fine. Jesus.

My neck and face went up in flames as I stood. Tony grabbed my waist before I changed my mind and pulled me down. My ass hit his muscled thighs with a satisfying thump.

“What’s your second best?” he demanded.

I blinked. “My what?”

“Your second favorite restaurant.”

“Oh. Um, my cousin and I went to P. F. Chang’s a couple times.”

Tony’s gaze twinkled with laughter. “There’s better out there.”

No kidding.

“I’ve always known that. I used to have this awful feeling in my chest. I knew I was being cheated with all the grocery store prepared crap, but I dealt with it. I was grateful.”

“We cope in different ways.” He grasped a ceramic carafe and poured hot liquid into a cup. “I recite cocktail recipes in my head. The repetition helps snap me out of it.”

“Isn’t that counterintuitive with your addiction?”

“Maybe, but it works.” He shrugged, nudging the cup toward me. “Try this. You might like it.”

Heat tingled my cheeks as I sipped the warm spirits. I scrunched my nose.

“It’s…okay. Kind of like vodka.”

Vague amusement lit up his face as I pushed it aside.

“It’s sake. I guess it’s not for everyone.”

“Is it difficult for you to resist alcohol?”

“Sometimes. But I’ve learned the hard way that me and booze don’t mix.”

Tony’s arms circled my waist and tightened. His attention flicked to the door, the windows, like a big cat scouting for prey.

“You seem on edge.”

Tony swiped his glass and downed his seltzer. “I don’t go out much.”

Since my club kidnapped and tortured you.

Nausea twisted my stomach. “Because of what they did to you?”

“Because I get nothing out of it. I’ve been to every restaurant, club, or bar you can think of. I’ve partied enough to last five lifetimes. I’m done with it all.” He casually stroked my thigh, the contact white-hot, and kissed my neck. “Don’t worry. Wining and dining my wife doesn’t count.”

Good.

I sipped the sake even though I wasn’t wild about the flavor, just to settle my nerves. Sitting on Tony’s lap, being held, and his deep voice booming through my back had overloaded my system. I wracked my brains for a subject to talk about.

“Did your dad expect you to succeed him as boss?”

He snorted. “He didn’t want me involved in the mafia, period.”

Really? That surprised me, considering he was the only son of the late Nico Costa.

“Even my father forces me to launder diamonds.”

“Not mine. He wanted more from me.”

“Like what?”

“So many things. I had to be perfect. I had to be the best. He filled me with so much hot air that I was so empty. I still am.” He released a sigh that sucked in my body. “I wasn’t always like this, Evie. My dad tried so hard. I went to dance classes, elocution lessons, luncheons with high society, riding lessons. He saw me as an Italian Jay Gatsby, a refined, white-collar criminal, a gentleman. He was hell bent on me marrying a princess.”

“You didn’t want a princess, I take it?”

“God no.”

I pictured an adolescent Tony pouting in riding breeches and smiled.

“I could see you rebelling.”

“Yeah, I went overboard with that. Couldn’t help it, though. Every second of my day was scheduled. By the time I got into an Ivy League, I was burnt out. Tired. I needed an escape, so I started smoking weed. You can guess how well that went.”

Tony kissed the back of my neck, as though he sensed my sinking heart.

“I never liked myself, Evie,” he said after a moment of silence. “I was an entitled bastard, a drug-addicted mess, a selfish jackass who screwed everybody over. Now I’m sober. I pay my bills. I behave myself at social functions. My family thinks I’m reformed, but they have no fucking idea…how ruined I am. I’m worse. I’m just trying to not be condemned to the hottest circle of hell.” He squeezed my palm, the fervor in his glare growing. “I won’t let the MC do that to you, too.”

Alarm rippled down my spine.

Tony and I finished the meal without saying another word. He paid for dinner, and I slid off his lap, grateful to be free from his intoxicating warmth. Tony looped his arm around my waist and gently escorted me to the car.

The secret, whatever it was, weighed the air. I didn’t want to break the silence with changing the subject. I hoped he’d confide in me once we got inside the penthouse. He still hadn’t told me the whole story. It ate at me as we took the elevator together, but Tony seemed happier than I’d ever seen him.

He caught my eye and smiled. “Want an espresso?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Coffee. Italians drink espressos after dinner.”

“Doesn’t that keep you up all night?”

“Not if you make it right. There’s not as much caffeine in an espresso as drip coffee.” The elevator doors opened into the penthouse. We stepped out, his palm at the small of my back.

My face tingled with heat.

“I mean, sure. I’d love that, but I thought it was a trigger for you.”

“Nah. I’ll be fine.”

Tony rifled through the cupboards and wrestled a giant, stainless steel machine out, his biceps bulging as he heaved it over the counter.

“Geez, that thing makes coffee? It looks like a spaceship.”

His grinned as he grabbed a microfiber towel and polished its surface. Then he seized a bag of beans and grinder from the shelf I couldn’t reach.

I gasped, scandalized. “You had it up there the entire time?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t get rid of it.”

I swelled like a bullfrog. “Mangiare un cazzeruole!”

Translation: Eat dick.

I’d been waiting all day to use it on him, but Google Translate must’ve fucked me over. Surprise flickered across Tony’s olive-skinned face.

“Sorry, what?”

Crap.

I butchered it. Was my accent that bad?

“Mangiare una cazzarola!” I growled, as Tony began to smirk.

“Cazzarola! Shit. I’m not saying it right, am I?”

A wide grin shattered his grim expression. Then he broke into full-hearted laughter. It was marvelous, transformative. He was like a completely different person, decades younger.

“Eat a casserole?” he choked out. “What the fuck. What are you trying to say?”

Heat stole into my cheeks. “Eat a dick?”

“That’s not how you say it,” he snorted, recovering slightly. “Like not even close. Dick is cazzo, not casseroula.”

“Mangia un cazzo?”

“No. God, no. That’s still not-” His voice boomed to the ceiling as he lost it. “Jesus. Stop before you kill me.”

His levity shivered through my body, the sound so joyful and light I couldn’t help but join him. He bit his lip, grinning hard. His eyes sparkled. There was a depth to his smile that had been missing for way too long.

I had to hear him laugh again.

“Well, I thought I was telling you off! Christian told me what cazzo meant, so I thought figuring it out on my own would be easy.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer talented and witty.”

He scooped me into his arms and kissed my head. “You want to learn Italian? Why?”

“I don’t know.” My heart hammered foolishly. “It’s kind of beautiful, but mostly I just can’t stand not understanding what Christian says when he’s on the phone. He tells me things sometimes.”

“My dad would’ve liked you.”

Tony brushed hair from my cheek. I tried to ignore the strange aching in my limbs, struck dumb by his words.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

I swallowed my anxiety and obeyed. It wasn’t easy. Tony was the sort of man who could hold someone’s gaze without flinching or looking away.

“Screw Christian. I’ll teach you Italian.”

My face flushed under his stare. “How do you say ‘fuck off’?”

“Vaffanculo.”

“Vaffagool.”

“Close enough.” His gorgeous smile reappeared, and a knot rose in my throat. “And if you hate someone and want them to tell them off real fucking good, you say this: Resta con me per sempre.”

“I sense a lie.”

His devilish smirk widened.

“How did you learn Italian?”

“My parents spoke it at home. I learned English outside and took language classes every Sunday until I was seventeen. That and Bible study.” He rolled his eyes hard. “I hated it so much.”

“I can’t imagine a less Godly person.”

He made an amused sound. “You and me both, babe.”

I couldn’t believe all the things he’d told me tonight. Rare was the man who talked about his flaws so openly. His raw honesty made me want to give something back, but Tony’s soft voice yanked me out of my jumbled thoughts.

“It does something to me. Right here.” He tapped his chest. “When you look at me with those innocent eyes and speak in broken Italian.”

The pit of my stomach churned. Then he kissed my cheek, heat flaring across my skin. Somehow, this chaste peck was more intense than anything he’d done at Sanctum. The sparkling conversation and raging sexual tension had fired me up and the night could only end one way-in the bedroom. He still hadn’t taken my virginity.

Now was the perfect time.

Tony rubbed my back and returned to the machine. He packed it with coffee grinds and flipped a switch.

“Why is the cup so tiny?”

“That’s how it’s served.”

“Huh. Can you do a cappuccino instead?”

“Sure.” As the dark liquid poured from the spout, he grabbed a carton from the fridge. He steamed the milk, slowly adding it into the cup. He pushed the drink into my hands.

I smiled at the floating heart pattern in my mug. I fought an impulse to take a photo, to guard the proof that Tony could be sweet when he wanted to be.

“Thank you.” I sipped, my toes curling with pleasure. “Oh, that’s amazing.”

“My mother would disown me if I couldn’t make decent coffee.” His pocket rang as he sat beside me on the living room couch. He pulled out his phone. His smile flattened to a grim line as he pocketed his cell. “Listen, I had a great time but I have to go.”

“Did I say something?”

Boy, I was hurt.

“No, hon.” His cup clinked against the dish as he set it down, and then he scooped my face in his hands. “There’s nothing to get upset over. It’s just work. You believe me, don’t you?”

I guess.

His forehead touched mine. He kissed my temple, cheek, and mouth, so soft he was barely there.

I followed him to the door like a cloud, dancing in the air. I held onto that feeling like a shining soap bubble rising toward a nail-covered ceiling.