Mated to the Mafioso

[ 12 ] - Bianca's Return

[ A N D R E A ]

I finish eating and pull out my phone. "What's your number?"

Dante smirks, like he's about to comment on it—but I just give him a steady look. I'm too tired for this BS.

He just groans and tells me it. Local area code. Makes sense; he has a faint classic Italian American New Yorker accent. His voice is rich, low; a bit growly. I can't tell if it's calming, or unnerving.

The split checks arrive—I stiffen a little, seeing my total. Expensive. Way out of my budget.

"It's not a big deal, Andrea. I won't hold this against you, use it to get wh—"

"No. It's fine." I say curtly, slipping in a card. Warmth gathers along the back of my neck—hot, prickly, uncomfortable—but I stifle, swallow it. If I say something, I'm going to stick to it.

Dante gestures to the wine. "Last question. You wanna have a sip? You paid for it, too."

"Here." I push it in his direction. "Drink it; don't waste it. I don't go back on your word."

"Or, more accurately...you're extremely stubborn, even if it's only hurting yourself."

"Tell that to your liver." I shoot back as he lifts the glass of wine to his lips. He chuckles.

"Wine has a ton of great antioxidants, too. Moot point."

I groan and stand, adjusting my bag. Dante downs the drink smoothly and stands, cracking his knuckles, rolling his shoulders back. A show of subtle strength; the muscles in his forearms flash, ripple. He's not a swollen bodybuilder, but he's lean, strong. Dangerous.

"I'll see you tomorrow." I say unceremoniously after a pause, glancing back up at his face. I debate on thanking him for tonight, but—no. The last thing he needs is to have his ego inflated.

"You too. Do you have a way to get back home safely? I can get a taxi—"

"I'm fine. I've got pepper spray." I joke, flashing a rare, thin smile, before standing, turning. Dante stands, waits—I can feel the heat buzzing off him. He follows, then stops. Respects my space.

I rush out the restaurant and hurry to the subway station, looking back three times.

He's not there.

***

Back in the apartment, Preethi's nowhere to be found. I ask where she is over text, and get back:

Omg met the cutest guy, stayin at his place, dw love u

I send a response: Okay, stay safe, use protection.

Preethi: Ok mom

I roll my eyes and set the phone down, frowning. The apartment's a mess—and it's not my fault. If I clean it, Preethi will only make it untidy once more. But if I leave it, it'll just...fester. And if I can't control my life, at least I can control the crowded space I live in.

Dante. Dante—

Was that real? I sit at the kitchen table, checking my phone. I have his contact.

Who the hell is he, really? I look up "Dante, entrepreneur, New York City"—maybe that'll give me something useful—

"NYC's 30 Under 30" is the first result. I tense, swallow a little. So he is real. A real man. What am I thinking, that he's Pinocchio? Of course he's a real person...

I click on the link. The image—him, cross-armed, angled against a window, smirking.

"Just who is Dante Ferro? The son of business mogul Durante Ferro is a businessman in his own right—and is shaping up to be Little Italy's next star. With several successful ventures under his belt, already having accrued millions of dollars in revenue—"