Page 28 of Confession (Constantine Brothers #2)

TWENTY-THREE

Vitali

“I’m sure you understand what a demonstration of trust this is, my coming here.”

I offer a practiced smile as Cecilia allows the waiter to seat her across from me. Tonight she’s wearing yellow silk and a necklace of diamonds.

“That’s why I asked you to come.”

Dulce is my cousin’s restaurant, my territory. A risk for her.

The waiter opens the $600 bottle of wine and pours a taste into each of our glasses. At Cecilia’s appreciative sound, he pours for us both and leaves the bottle. Plates of bruschetta sit before each of us.

Cecilia settles back with her wine, swirling it elegantly. “You’re in love with him.”

“Yes.” There’s no point in denying it.

“He’s very handsome. If you like rugged men.”

“Oh, I do.”

My eyes flick across the room to where Quinn is keeping an eye on me from the bar. I wish, abruptly and searingly, that he were the one sitting across from me.

“You forgave him?” Cecilia asks.

“What was to forgive? He chose me.”

Her dark eyes study me. “So you won’t use the evidence,” she concludes.

“No, but there are other paths to what I want. I might choose a path that could converge with one you might choose.”

“That would be interesting.”

“And mutually beneficial.”

She swirls her wine and sips. “What are you thinking?”

“How far are you prepared to see things go?” I take a bite of bruschetta. Fuck, it’s good. I want Quinn to taste it.

“My brother is a careless fool. He’s unfit to run our family business, and soon my father won’t be able to. I believe in being proactive.”

“We have that in common.”

Cecilia sips her wine again. “I wonder. If we laid certain … grievances to rest, how might business flourish atop the grave of those grievances?”

“It would be interesting to find out.”

She smiles. “My brother wants to kill you.”

“I know.”

“It’s not as simple as you think. Or perhaps it’s simpler? He claims it’s to eliminate the possibility of Quinn passing the evidence to you—obviously now moot—but the real truth is that he’s never quite recovered from Quinn’s betrayal. A powerful motivation, revenge.”

“Indeed.”

“It occurs to me, then, how easy it might be for me to … send him in your direction. He knows I’m here tonight.” When I tense slightly, she cocks her head to the side. “What choice did I have, coming here? He thinks I’m lying to you, putting myself forward falsely.”

“I see.”

“Easy, then, to tell him of another meeting, one where you might be more exposed. Where he might, perhaps, try to kill you. And you could, in self defense of course, act in kind.”

“Your father might react badly to that.”

“Of course. But he would be forced to recognize the justification.”

“By you?”

“Naturally.” She shrugs elegantly. “Dying? Grieving? He’ll yield to me.”

“You’re sure?”

“I know my father. Trust me or don’t. But if you want to move along this … converged path, send me the time and place of our next meeting and be ready for me to betray you.” She finishes her wine and sets the glass by her untouched plate. “That’s very good. I’m glad there wasn’t a finger in it.”

I smile. “He told you?”

“Oh, he never would. I was there of course, in the background.”

“How could you ever be in the background, Cecilia?”

She smiles, liking that. “Only by design. Goodnight, Vitali.”

“Goodnight, Cecilia.”

She leaves, beautiful and well aware of it, meeting her guard at the door. When she’s gone, Quinn crosses the restaurant to take her seat. The waiter comes back, setting out a fresh glass, which he fills, and taking the used one away.

Quinn tastes it. “That’s good.”

“Cecilia thought so too.”

“And?”

“And we have a plan. Try the bruschetta.”

“I’d rather hear about what she said.”

“I’d rather pretend, for five minutes, that the DiMaggios don’t exist and that you and I are simply here together.”

Color stains his cheeks. “I didn’t expect this side of you,” he grumbles, eyes on the plate as he picks up a piece of the bruschetta. “I didn’t even know it existed.”

“And what side is that?”

“This … romantic side.”

I smile, enjoying this particular discomfort of his. “I guess I didn’t know it existed either. But I’m kind of enjoying it.”

An embarrassed smile tugs at his lips, telling me that he’s kind of enjoying it too. He bites into the bruschetta.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters. “That’s good.”

I chuckle. “Better than the wine?”

“Definitely. I know, I know,” he says as though I was about to say something, which I wasn’t. “I’m low class. Give me toast, tomatoes, and cheese instead a wine that costs god knows how much.”

“There’s a little more to it than that.”

“The shredded basil is good. And the balsamic reduction is perfect. I need the recipe.”

I smile, and it feels nothing like the fake smile I used a few minutes ago. “My nonna did a number of you.”

“She saved my life,” he tells me. “Just like you did.”

“How so?”

“She made a place for me.”

“She loved you.”

“She tolerated me.”

“She loved you,” I insist. “And you gave her something that I didn’t have it in me to give at the time.”

“And what was that?”

“Someone to put her hope in. She’d already given up on me.”

“No, she hadn’t.”

“Roman was gone. I was angry and bitter and hateful.”

“You were in pain, Vitali. She understood that, even if you didn’t.”

I look away. Fuck, why are we on this subject? I was having such good thoughts.

I sip the wine, but it tastes different now, sharper.

“So can I have the recipe or not?” Quinn asks.

I look at him across the table. I fall in love with him all over again. “Would you make it for me?”

“Yes. But you’ll have to get to it before Sasha. You know how she is.”

“You could put some aside for me, you know.”

“Fine. Recipe.” He snaps his fingers like I’ve got it on hand.

“I’ll have to ask Mario. He may or may not—”

“Oh, please. No one says no to you, Vitali.”

“Except you.”

“And yet you always get your way. Why is that?” He’s teasing me now, but I get serious.

“Because you like it like that. You need it.”

A vulnerable look comes into his eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”