“Thank you,” I say when we get in the car.
He makes a genuinely dismissive gesture. There’s no hesitation or hint that he expects something in return for the gift. “It’s nothing. You deserve it for the shit I’ve put you through.”
I try to think of something to say, but I can only smile softly and play with the hem of my dress. I’ve never worn something so expensive and well-made. “So...where are we going?”
“It’s nothing crazy,” he says. “Just a place with good food and good music. You’ll love it.”
The restaurant is in Manhattan, tucked between a dry cleaners and an old school movie theater. There’s a line at the door, but Vince takes my arm and leads me passed. I steal a few glances at the men and women waiting, who shoot us looks of admiration and undisguised jealousy. I try not to smile at how the women look at me. I can tell they are torn between appreciation for my dress and the man on my arm. Most of them probably wish they were me right now. I know I would. The thought is only slightly soured when a small voice in my head reminds me that they might not wish to trade places if they knew who Vince really was. But is that true? Vince has been showing me that he has another side to him. He’s not just a violent criminal. He’s thoughtful, kind, and generous. Maybe I misread him.
We reach the front entrance and Vince just pats the bouncer on the arm.
“Mr. Citrione!” says the bouncer. He take the velvet rope and hooks it in front of the line while he leads us inside. “Come this way. I’ll make sure they get a table ready for you.”
When we step inside, the host sees Vince and claps his hands to two busboys. He jerks his head and mouths something to them. They rush off and return a few seconds later with a table. It’s like watching a disturbed anthill as the busboys swarm to move the table to the front of the stage. We’re led through the crowded restaurant toward the stage where a woman wearing a sparkling dress sings in a husky voice. By the time we reach the table, it’s covered by a table cloth, adorned with a dim candle, and set with silverware, plates, and a basket of warm bread rolls.
Vince pulls out my chair and helps me to sit.
I feel like an idiot because I can’t stop smiling. Guys don’t treat girls like this anymore. They definitely don’t treat me like this.
“Thanks for coming,” he says once we’re seated.
I raise my eyebrows. “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
His grin is predatory. “That’s the idea.”
“Is this how you operate? You dazzle women with luxury and hope they’ll get into bed with you at the end of the night?”
He looks down, folding his napkin, suddenly less sure. “Actually, no. I normally have a policy. I don’t buy things for women. I’ll pay for dinner, but I don’t do gifts.”
“So…” I say, not sure how to respond.
His confidence returns. “So you’re special. To me.”
I blush and smile like an idiot. It’s probably a line, something he says to every girl he takes out, but that knowledge might as well be a drop of water in a campfire.
Comfortable conversation flows between us while we order and wait for our entrees to arrive. I know the food must be expensive, because there are no prices listed on the menu. I also couldn’t understand half of what the menu items were, so Vince ordered for me. He also orders us a bottle of wine. I’ve never been much of a wine drinker, but if all wine tasted like this, I would be. It’s sweet, delicate, and has a pleasant aftertaste that makes me want to keep sipping, even after I have a pleasant buzz.
My meal is a handmade plate of ravioli in a mushroom basil cream sauce. The filling is a mixture of lobster and crab. Vince ordered himself a lasagna, which he insists I try. Both dishes are incredible, and by the time I’m done, I’ve eaten as much of Vince’s as I have of mine. Between the wine, the gentle flame of the candle, the soft, husky voice of the singer, and Vince’s sparkling eyes across the table, I feel happy and content for the first time in what feels like forever.
Before dessert arrives, a woman in a green dress with a plunging neckline that flaunts her huge breasts approaches our table. She puts both hands on the table and leans forward. Judging by the way her eyelids drop and she sloppily smiles, she’s more than a little drunk. “Vincent,” she says, leaning so far forward that I’m sure her tits are going to pop out of her dress at any second.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms as I watch her oogle him. He folds his napkin and glares up at her.
“Maria,” he says coldly.
“So is this tramp the reason you dropped off the face of the Earth? You just fuck me and forget me?” she turns to me, making a face like she’s giving me some motherly advice. “Listen, hun. He’s no good. He’ll do the same to you. Just walk away before he does.”