Mated to the Mafioso

[ 8 ] - Kidnapping Vibes

[ A N D R E A ]

I pause. Yes, but I don't want him to get the wrong idea. "Yes, but only because I'm starving, and I don't know this area. Lead the way. And if I feel like you're going to kidnap me or something, I'm running." I raise my hands and Dante grins, setting off. He initially moves too fast, but slows down to keep my pace. Short legs and all.

"I promise I have no intention of kidnapping you. Do I give off that...I dunno, vibe?" He raises a brow.

"If you're careful, every person gives off that vibe. Just a little."

"You mean, if you're slightly paranoid."

I start to retort something snappy back, but he's joking; it's clear from his grin, the playful crinkle of his eyes. I just huff.

"No. You don't look like you'd kill me, and you haven't given me any warning signs yet."

"Good. Your glare is deadly, so I think I should be scared of you."

I purposefully deepen my scowl, just to get back at him. He walks a little faster. I dig my hands into the pockets of my jacket and keep up.

"Right, because a chubby, clearly exhausted, barely-five-foot woman in a dress and boots is terrifying."

"Who knows who you can become, though."

He says that nonchalantly. I look around—the street's empty. An older couple is on the opposite sidewalk, walking their dog; we're definitely not in earshot.

"You want to say that any louder?" I growl.

"I'd love to, actually." Dante laughs, then cups his hands around his mouth, and starts to yell, "Who knows—"

I go cold, then hot, with panic, and my arm shudders, skin slipping, rippling, fur—

Dante turns toward me and frowns, cutting himself off. "I was joking. I wasn't going to say—are you already shifting? Again?"

"Yes!" I stop walking and bite my tongue. The blood tastes bitter and metallic, but everything reverts back. Dante rakes back his hair, exhaling, breath becoming mist. He waits for an answer. An explanation. Something.

But I don't give it to him. 

I just walk ahead, ducking my head a little. The wind softly howls through the street. Distant sirens, speeding cars. Rustling trees—Central Park must be close.

"How far is this place?" I ask, filling the silence.

"Next block; turn left."

I nod, cross the street. There's a few boutiques, restaurants; all clean, updated. New signage, faintly glowing. A few people are walking around. Must be a popular street.

This definitely isn't my part of the city...

"Sun Deco—there it is."

The text is thin, angular; lit brightly. There are no windows in the building, at least from what I see—just double doors made of engraved metal. They shine in the low, pale city light, showing Apollo on a chariot, pulling the sun over an angular, stylized New York City. It's impressive, intricate—even the buildings have markings for windows. I run my fingers along the pattern, which is cold and calming.

"After you." Dante says, opening the other door. A gust of warm, delicious air rushes out, smelling faintly like cherries and warming spices and roast duck. I walk in, brows raised.

The ceilings are high. The space is made of wood, but bathed in golden light. A fireplace crackles at the entrance; two velvet, oversized chairs are on either side. A coat rack, menu on the wall, host at the stand. Golden bars, art deco design; fancy, rippled marble. Everything is symmetrical and angular, yet stripped-back and aerodynamic.