Mated to the Mafioso

[ 9 ] - Aphrodisiacs and Dinner Antics

"I'll have the lamb burger, please. Rare."

Burgers. Okay, that's a good frame of reference. I skim the menu for burgers. Oh jeez, the prices—

"And what'll you have, miss?"

Lamb burger, goat cheese, some berry jam, arugula, tomato, caramelized onions, fries—sounds delicious.

"A lamb burger too, please." I hand the waiter the menu, offering him a small smile. "Medium."

"Got it! I'll have your appetizers out soon."

"No rush." He waves a hand, and once the waiter's out of earshot, I lean forward, setting my hands on the table.

"You couldn't have waited a second for me to see the menu?"

Dante shrugs, impassive. "I figured you'd find something you like. Good choice, by the way. I would've ordered you the same thing, if you'd have let me."

"I didn't have the time to read it."

"Do you want me to get Marcel back? He can re-take your order, no issue. Here—" Dante stands, about to walk back. I grit my teeth.

"Sit down—it's fine. I don't need to be a headache—or for you to be one."

Dante laughs and slips back into his seat, raking back his hair. "You must be the type of person to not complain when a waiter gets your order wrong." I give him a look, and he raises his hands. "Hey. Don't do that. I'm not an ass to service workers; I tip very well, and I know they regularly go through shit. I'm just saying that when it's appropriate, it's fair to ask them to redo things. Or get something right the second time."

"Duly noted." I deadpan.

There's a lull in the conversation. Dante takes a sip of the wine and gestures to my glass with his chin. "You should try that; it's great. I figured you'd like something that was deeper than a white wine, but lighter than a dry, earthy red."

"I don't drink wine, really." I say, unmoving. "Maybe you should've asked instead of assuming what I like."

"Duly noted." he deadpans, eyes crinkling, before swirling and taking another sip of his wine. "Your loss."

I roll my eyes but say nothing.

"So, what do you do?"

"I tutor kids. Standardized test prep, helping them with their homework, essays, whatever they need. I do it virtually and in-person, but tend to stick local. New York City schools and all."

"Huh—I didn't take you for someone to be...particularly great with kids."

I bristle a little and bite my tongue, then drink from the water glass.

"Sorry. That was blunt of me to say. And assume. Look at me, making an ass out of myself, right?" He smirks, gestures to himself, waiting for me to smile, soften—but I remain firm. And he sighs.

I don't go down easily.

"That's a nice job, though. Helping the youth. So you're smart? Always had your head buried in a book?"

"Yeah; more fun than being around other people." I state. "Plus, I dunno. Kids were cruel."

He swirls the glass of wine, staring. Taking me in. He doesn't size me up like a piece of meat, though; it's more a steady unraveling, like he's making sense of me. "Were you bullied?" he finally asks.

I nod. "Yeah. God, it was so stupid—" I laugh. "Again, kids. But you know how it goes—metaphorically. Chubby kid, hairy kid, quiet kid, doesn't speak much English, hence the quiet part—I mean. I lived in Miami; everyone there is Latine! I went to a private school, though. Different demographics. Everybody asked if I was a damn lobizona—an Argentine werewolf."