Page 118

Vito chatted with the guards in Italian, but I didn’t pay attention to them. I wanted to see everything and commit it to memory. Someday I’d be able to tell my grandkids about the time a mobster flew me to Toronto for a date.
We drove from the more industrial part into downtown. The streets bustled with cars and people, surrounded by big lights and tall buildings. Not as busy as New York, which I remembered as chaotic and loud, but a world away from Paesano. Restaurants with every cuisine imaginable joined business, diverse architecture, and plenty of green spaces. It was like commercialism exploded here, but somehow it still felt balanced.
The people seemed happy, either chatting with friends as they walked or listening to music through earbuds. And the streets were so clean.
“What do you think?” he asked beside me.
“It’s a lot.”
“Bad?”
“No, but I’m not sure where to look. It’s sensory overload.”
He didn’t respond, just gave my hand another squeeze. I probably sounded lame and unsophisticated, but it was true. And Iwaslame and unsophisticated. If he expected anything else from me tonight, he’d be disappointed.
The car slowed and turned onto a side street, then pulled over to the curb. I peered through the window. “Where are we going?”
“Wait there,” he said and got out of the car, along with his guards.
Vito opened my door and extended his hand. I slid out and stood, and I was secretly pleased when he didn’t let go of me, his fingers clasped with mine. A wooden sign hanging above a door read Dark Horse Tavern. “I think you’ll like this place,” he murmured as he yanked on the handle. “They have amazing burgers.”
I couldn’t contain my grin as I went in. He brought me to aburgerplace. Relief filled me as I went in and discovered booths and tables, a long bar. The walls were covered with hockey photos and beer signs, and the tables and chairs appeared well used. It wasn't fancy or pretentious and it wasperfect.
His arm slid around my waist as he chatted with the older woman at the front. She recognized him, so maybe he hadn’t been lying about this being one of his usual spots. We were quickly seated at a booth and she left us menus. “I love this place already,” I told him.
“You haven’t tasted the food yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can tell it’s going to be good.”
His leg found mine under the table and he pressed tight to me, not moving away. Then he handed me a menu. “You have to try the poutine.”
“Those are gravy fries, right?”
“With cheese curds, yes. It sounds strange, but most people find it delicious.” He shrugged.
“Oh, they have chicken pot pie!”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what is that?”
My menu dropped from my hands with a slap. “You’ve never had chicken pot pie?” When he shook his head, I said, “It is the cure for all of life’s ills. Carrots, onions and celery in a gravy with chicken, topped with either biscuits or pastry dough. I like biscuits.”
Vito’s expression told me everything I needed to know about what he thought of this dish. “Don’t make that face,” I said. “It’s delicious.”
“I will take your word for it.”
The server came for our drink order, and Vito bumped my leg with his. “Do you want to try the wine here?”
This was easy. “I want a beer.”
The server recommended one of the local IPAs, so I went with that. Vito ordered an Italian beer. It felt nice to be out with him. We both stared at each other, neither of us speaking. A quiet moment of companionable silence. Even still, I could see amusement dancing in his dark eyes.
“Are you going to order chicken pot pie?” I teased.
“Only if I can toss it in the trash bin.”
“You’re a food snob.”
For a second, I thought I might get a full-fledged grin out of him. He draped his arm across the back of the booth. “Did you like your meatball sub and chocolate cake the other night?”