If The Seas Catch Fire(56)

But there were only so many times Dom could body-swerve his own life. Whether he liked it or not, he was a Maisano, and his uncle wasn’t going to accept many more excuses where Dom’s bachelorhood was concerned.

So, in between finding every possible chance to get f*cked by Sergei, Dom had finally made that date with Brigida. In a few hours, he’d meet her at the restaurant where Floresta and Mandanici had ambushed him, and they’d try this again.

And all the while, as he put on the face of a longtime bachelor who was serious about settling down, he knew damn well he’d be aching for another hit. For one more night that he could lock away in his memory so he’d have fantasies for later. Something to keep him sane while he spent the rest of his life as a committed heterosexual in between committing capital crimes for an organization he despised.

Jesus. I really am in hell.



*



At the urging of his uncle and her father, there was extra security this time. Dom had adamantly refused a bodyguard for his daily life but relented for this, and as he sat in the restaurant and waited, he tried to ignore the looming shapes hovering behind him.

One bodyguard. I agreed to one bodyguard.

But no. Corrado had to insist on three.

Well, at least he wasn’t getting his ass kicked tonight. Which was good, because as exhausted and achy as he was from another night with Sergei, he was in no condition to put up a fight.

At exactly seven o’clock, Brigida Passantino walked into the restaurant, and every head turned. Though Dom didn’t feel an ounce of sexual attraction to women, he could definitely see why other men fell all over themselves for her. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, and the black dress was made for her tall, slim figure. Knowing what he did about Brigida and her sisters, the dress struck him as a compromise between father and daughter—short enough and low enough for a woman who wasn’t afraid to show some skin, but still modest enough for Passantino to let her out of the house. Dom grinned to himself. Though the older generations of men in this town were still stuck in the 1950s, and saw women as currency to be exchanged and objects to be admired, there were women like Brigida who would stand on their own two feet and be who they were regardless of what their fathers thought.

“I’m a grown woman,” he could almost hear her snarling in her powerful, dangerous father’s face. “I’m meeting this * like you wanted. You’re not telling me how to dress too.”

And then there was the way she moved. Her long strides, her posture—it all screamed not just confidence, but fearlessness. She strode across the restaurant, shoulders back and head high, not giving her security detail a second look as they followed her. He had a feeling she’d be just as bold without a pair of heavily armed men at her back.

As she approached, he stood. Biaggio had taught him young to pull out a lady’s chair, but something about the way she held his gaze told him that wouldn’t go over well.

Instead, he extended his hand. “Brigida?”

She smiled warmly and shook his hand. “You must be Domenico.”

“Just call me Dom.”

“All right. Dom.” She released his hand and reached for her chair, which didn’t surprise him. As she took her seat, he took his, but moved a little slower so that she sat down first but wouldn’t think he was making a big show of it. One of her older sisters had berated Luciano for holding a door for her on a date a few years ago. According to her, chivalry and chauvinism were synonymous, so Dom decided to err on the side of simply and subtly being a gentleman.

“Wine?” He gestured at the leather bound wine list.

“Of course.” She picked up the list. “Do you have any preference?”

He shrugged. “I could go for something red, but whatever sounds good.”

She opened the list, lips quirking as she perused the options. “How about a Domaine Romanée Conti?”

“Sounds great.” He was about to flag down the waiter, but Brigida beat him to it, making eye contact and politely beckoning him over.

When the waiter arrived at the table, Brigida ordered the bottle, handed her the list, and dismissed her. Then she met Dom’s gaze, and her confidence faltered slightly.

“You… don’t mind…” She waved a hand toward the waiter.

“Oh, no. Of course not.” Dom smiled. “You had the list, after all.”

“True.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been out with some guys who get their noses out of joint if I step all over them trying to impress me.”

Dom chuckled. “Well, I’m not going to stop you if it means sparing everyone my horrible French.”

Brigida laughed, and… wow, she really had a smile that could light up a room. “Just don’t tell my dad we ordered anything French, okay? As far as he’s concerned, if it didn’t come from Italy, it isn’t worth drinking unless it’s champagne.”

Dom laughed too, bringing his water glass up to his lips. “I don’t know if I’d go that far with champagne.”

“Same here.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think I’d rather drink horse piss.”

Dom choked on his water.

Brigida covered her mouth, smothering a laugh. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been here two minutes and I’m already being crass.”