Nico (Ruin & Revenge #1)(50)

“What are we gonna eat today, Lennie?” He waved the offered menu away.

Lennie made a few suggestions that Nico ignored.

“You know what? I’ll tell you what we’re gonna have. Make me some prosciutt’, a little antipasti, some arancini, a little caponata, polenta with gorgonzola, some chicken masala, then when we’re done with that bring us a little red mullet in onion sauce. How’s that?”

“Very good, sir.”

Mia coughed discretely and he caught her frown. He’d ordered lots of food. Wasn’t it enough?

Lennie’s gaze flicked to Mia and back to Nico. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, like he’d been squeezed between a rock and a hard place. “Anything else, Mr. Toscani?”

What the fuck? “You unclear about something I said?”

Mia gave an irritated grunt, and curled her hand around her water glass, clutching it so hard her knuckles turned white. Something niggled at the back of Nico’s mind, but before he could work it out, Lennie backed away with an obsequious bow.

“Mi dispiace. I’ll get that order to your table right away.”

“Never had a problem with Lennie before.” He reached for Mia’s hand, and she moved it away.

The niggle in his mind became a prickle of warning. Fuck. Of course. Not everyone liked mullet.

“You don’t like the food? I’ll tell Lennie to make something else.”

“I like it,” she said, her tone clipped. “But I would have preferred to have been asked.”

Asked? He always ordered the food. He was the man. It was his job. And women ate what the men ate because men knew what was good. She needed to understand that when it came to matters of protection and providing, he was in charge.

“I’m the ma—”

She held up a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t go there. Just. Don’t.”

He felt the slightest twinge of regret that he hadn’t asked her opinion, especially since she’d been very careful not to disrespect him in front of Lennie. Given her views on empowering women, her restraint was a gift of immeasurable value.

“Next time, bella, you tell me what you like.”

Would there be a next time? Did he want to get involved when he still had the Scozzari engagement hanging over his head? The only possible future they had was one in which Mia became his goomah—mistress.

Nico felt a curious tightening in his chest at the thought of putting Mia through what his mother had been through. Yes, there was love, but there was also a lot of jealousy, sadness, and pain. And what if they had a son? Would he really want a child to bear the stigma he had borne, growing up a bastard in a culture where marriage was a sacred bond? Nothing had come easy for Nico. He’d had to fight for what little respect he earned. And everything he achieved had come with a price.

“This place is amazing.” Mia gestured to the photographs on the walls nearest them—classic prints of the heyday of Las Vegas, showgirls in the fifties, the Rat Pack in the sixties, Sinatra, Liberace, and the classic hotels—the Flamingo and the Riviera.

“Those were the days,” Nico said, grateful for her attempt to smooth over what could have been an abrupt end to the evening. “Big names. Best acts. The hotels were all trying to outdo each other. Money flowed. The Mafia ran the show.”

“You really do like the oldies. Is this restaurant yours?”

“I have a part-interest.”

She laughed, the shadows fading from her face. “Soon to be a full interest, I expect. I know how those part-interests work. It would be a shame if it burned down.”

“It won’t. I protect everything that is mine.” He cupped her jaw, brushed his thumb over the curve of her cheek. “Everything.”

Mia studied him for a long moment, and then she tipped her head, rubbing her cheek against his palm.

Forgiven.

He felt something uncurl inside him, and liquid warmth flooded his body, spreading out to his fingers and toes.

“So you’re a history buff?”

“Just Vegas.” Nico reluctantly released her when a waiter came to refill their water glasses. “The idea of creating something out of nothing, this incredible city in the middle of the desert … I would have liked to be part of it.” He hesitated, reluctant to share more, but no one had ever shown much interest in his secret passion. “My father would have hated all this. He was a very practical man. Very traditional. Very committed to the family and the business. He was very New York. Being sent here to set up the Las Vegas faction was a punishment to him. He said the only good thing that came out of it was that he met my mother.”

“His goomah?”

“Yeah.” He sipped the ice water, felt a cool rush through his veins. “It was hard on her. They loved each other, but there was never a chance he would marry her. Her family had nothing to offer. And, of course, Cosa Nostra marriages are forever, so there was no possibility of divorce once he married my stepmother.” He downed the rest of the glass, trying to take the edge off the bitter memories with the icy burn. “I built the casino in my mother’s memory. She was Vegas—a dancer in one of the shows; she loved to sing and dance, gamble and party. I run it clean. Respectable. For her. If I could do that for the family, I would.”

“You want the family to be respectable?”