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We blink out of our shock and do as he says, obediently trailing after him. He leads us to one of the bigger tables with four men and two women already in the middle of a conversation in Italian.

“Tutti, gli ospiti del signor Calderone sono arrivati.”

A man smoking a cigar almost chokes on it trying to reply. He vaguely resembles Santa Claus—except Sicilian—as he smiles up at us, the hazy smoke from his cigar almost blending with his thick white beard.

“Ah, you must be the special guests,” he says in passable English. “Welcome, ladies. My name is Anthony. This is my son, Anthony Junior. His wife, Olivia. The two men beside you are Maurizio and Adagio. And the lovely little sulking woman at the end is Sofia.”

Jayla and I smile and nod at everyone around the table as we tuck ourselves into our chairs. At minimum everyone returns our nods—some, like Adagio even wave or smile—except for Sofia. She’s a petite brunette who is indeed sulking, arms crossed over her chest and her head turned to the side.

I glance knowingly at Jayla. It’s a gift of ours, being able to read each other’s mind.

One look, and we’ve agreed to stay the hell away from Sofia and her bad attitude.

“Thank you for having us,” I say to everyone else. “We didn’t realize part of our prize would be a nice dinner like this.”

“Mr. Calderone only likes the best,” says Anthony. He holds his arms out to gesture at the room we’re in. “As I’m sure you can see from his restaurant. He insisted on the winners joining us. Is this your first time in Sicily?”

“Yes and no. I was here once as a kid. But it is for Jayla.”

“This is my first time even out of the country, period,” Jayla adds.

“Excellent. Then we must make sure your stay is memorable.”

The more Anthony talks, the more certain I am he’s familiar with Americans. He’s probably even spent an extensive amount of time in the States, if not lived there himself.

My theory is proven correct when his son mentions his trip to Newport City next week.

“Do you visit often?” I ask.

Anthony Jr. snorts, puffing on a cigar like his father. “Often? It’s his favorite place in the world.”

“Second to Sicily,” he corrects. “Newport City is the place where dreams come true. I’m sure you ladies would agree.”

Jayla smiles. “Weird coincidence. We’re actually from Newport.”

I step on her foot under the table. She gets the hint and offers no further details.

The conversation evolves to the beaches in the local area. Adagio speaks in a much thicker accent than both Anthonys, recommending which beaches to visit and the ones to avoid.

We’re served large platters of pasta and lasagna that I already know I won’t be finishing. I dig in anyway, almost moaning at how good the food tastes. The pasta’s arguably the best I’ve ever had, clearly homemade. The cheeses are fresh while the meat is seasoned just right.

I swallow my bite of lasagna and sit for a second savoring the flavors. I’m practically salivating at how delicious it is when I sense eyes on me.

Eyes that don’t belong to anyone at the table.

Someone’s watching.

Intuition leads me to them. Glancing up, my gaze scans the cavernous room until I find the culprit—a mysterious man in a suit and tie on the second level. He’s standing at the balcony staring down at our table.

Staring right at me.

He’s the type of man that’s as handsome as he is mysterious. Dark hair and dark eyes; the second our gazes connect, a sharp shiver jolts down my spine.

I’m not sure how I know. It’s more of a sense. But he’s important. He’s definitely exclusive enough for the second floor of the restaurant. He carries that kind of air about him, like he’s the most important man in the room the moment he walks in.

And he can’t take his eyes off me.

He won’t look away.