A moment later, the door swung open and a dark-haired hostess in a tight black dress stood on the other side. “Signor Russo.” She smiled brightly at him, but then her smile fell as her eyes came down and regarded me. Her gaze narrowed, fake eyelashes and all. She did a great job with her makeup, I had to admit, but the way her lips curled in disgust like I was a cheap prostitute was blatantly rude.
Ugh. My first day out with Nico and I was the most unpopular woman in the city.
I would have brushed it off before, not having the guts to confront it in any way. Nonetheless, I was now marrying a don. I couldn’t let myself be run over by waitresses. It felt a little ridiculous, like I was playing immature games, but I reached back and slipped my fingers in between Nico’s.
He stilled as if I surprised him, but after a second, his fingers tightened around my own. And then I felt a light smack on my ass to get me moving. The gesture made me warm everywhere, but thankfully it didn’t reach my face.
I didn’t look at the waitress again, though I believed she got the picture. He could do whatever or whoever he wanted, but not in my presence. There was a certain amount of respect I was due, and I didn’t think even Nico would deny me that.
I dropped his hand and stepped onto a short steel staircase. I blinked, taking it all in.
A thick atmosphere hung in the air that I wouldn’t have expected in a place like this. For starters, it looked like there were maybe two women in the room, including the one at the door. The gross majority were men, from suits to board shorts and polos.
Poker tables were distributed around the large area, with players occupying seats in front of them, all in different stages of betting their life savings away.
I followed Nico down the stairs, observing the obvious illegal gaming hall. A card game ended, and as the players stood, all five lit a cigarette and headed to the corner of the room.
“Are they not allowed to smoke at the tables?” I asked Nico.
“They can. Most times it’s a tell so they wait until the game’s over.”
Interesting.
I liked to know weird stuff like this.
I fired questions at him all the way to his office, from how much the House made in one night （roughly twenty grand） to why there were only two women （they were distracting）。
The gambling was serious enough that distractions weren’t wanted in any way. Nobody paid me an ounce of attention as we walked toward the back of the room. The men at the tables were statues of concentration, and the ones smoking were sweating from their losses or too busy texting about their winnings.
His office was a perfect square with a blue, stylish couch, a mahogany desk with a couple chairs in front of it, a flat-screen TV, and a minibar. I set my clutch on the glass coffee table, while he pushed a button on his keyboard to get the computer started.
The walls were concrete, but with the gold and blue oriental rug and nothing but one piece of artwork on the wall, the room was somehow warm and comfortable.
I studied the painting that sat behind a shiny piece of glass. Pastel colors and bold yet refined sweeps of a brush. I wasn’t an artistic person like my sister, but I recognized the work. I’d watched a documentary about the downfall of modern art. That what we consider art today is a poor example of the talent and heart of art in the past.
“I didn’t take you to have a soft spot for Monet,” I said, glancing at him.
His attention was on his computer, but a small smile pulled on his lips. He stood with one hand braced on the desk while hitting keys with the other. Either he had this place under his command much like a mad scientist with their destructive red buttons, or he was a very unproductive typist.
“My mamma was a fan.”
My stomach warmed at the deep way mamma rolled off his lips. “She had good taste.”
He laughed quietly. A bitter note showed through, and he wiped his amusement away with a palm like he’d just realized what he’d done. It felt like I was about to wade into deep waters, but I couldn’t stop myself from going deeper.
I raised a brow. “You don’t like Monet?”
“I have it in my office, don’t I?”
“That’s not why you have it in here.”
His shoulders tensed, and he pushed his keys a little harder. “You analyzing me?”
I gazed at the soft, pastel strokes in the painting. “There’s a saying amongst us women: Don’t trust a man who isn’t good to his mamma.”
His gaze burned into my cheek. “You think I was bad to my mother?”
I wasn’t sure how I recognized I wouldn’t get to know him easily, that I might have to get him worked up to do so. He wasn’t someone to sit around and share his past with others, his fiancée included. I needed to know the man I would marry. There was a part of me that just wanted to know, so I lifted a shoulder. My heart danced at the unfamiliar game I was playing.