Page 23 of Enzo

“Enzo Marchetti, I presume,” I stated bravely, then narrowed my eyes on the cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Disgusting habit.”

“Penelope.” My name rolled from his lips in a purr, his Italian smooth. “Nice tosee you. I’m Enzo.”

My brow furrowed. Why did he make it sound like we’d met before?

“Ah, the famous Penelope DiMauro,” a man next to him stated. It had to be his brother; the two shared the same dark hair and features. “You’re twenty minutes late. Must be the Irish punctuality.”

“Amadeo,” my fiancé said in a low, raspy voice, warning ringing loud and clear in it, although his brother didn’t seem to heed the warning.

Instead, he chuckled. “What? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard about Irish punctuality?”

I flicked my papà a wry look. “Can we kill that one?” I asked in Gaelic.

He answered back, the fluency of his words far more practiced than mine. “I’m for it, but I’m afraid your mama would be upset.” I resumed my steps, following him as he glared at the younger brother. He switched back to English. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Irish lethality, Amadeo. If you haven’t, you’re about to unless you shut your mouth.”

“Please accept my apologies,” Enzo cut in when Amadeo opened his mouth to speak again. “He’s sorry for talking nonsense. Aren’t you,fratello?”

He rolled his eyes playfully, then winked at me. “Of course, but I know Penelope will come to love that about me.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” I muttered while Enzo stared at me like I was already his, and something about the look in his eyes had my cheeks blazing with heat.

Why did he look at me like he owned me?

Discarding his cigarette, he closed the distance between us and I fought the urge to step closer to my father. But I didn’t because I knew it wouldn’t bode well for anyone. In his overprotective mode, he’d take it to the extreme and likely shoot all three men right here on this sidewalk on the outskirts of Rome.

Enzo and Papà shook hands before Enzo’s eyes darted back to me, and he extended his arm. I took it reluctantly.

His scent, musky and manly, enveloped me. It was… unique, but somehow I knew if I closed my eyes, I could call to mind having smelled it before. I lifted my head to his beautiful face, studying it.

“Let’s go inside,” Enzo announced.

“You might want to keep your family in check,” Papà grumbled behind us, speaking to Enzo’s father and watching us like a hawk. His mood was souring with every passing minute. “I really don’t see the reason for tonight’s dinner. It’s not like we have anything more to say to each other.”

We entered the restaurant and I immediately noted that it lacked any sort of atmosphere. The reason soon registered as I stared at the empty space, completely void of guests, the usual clanking of silverware, and music. A simple round table sat in the center of the dimly lit room, and no part of me was looking forward to what was sure to be an awkward evening. There were five place settings, and I looked around, wondering where the food would come from.

“My apologies for the lack of ambiance.” Enzo must have read my mind. “It’s the only place where we could ensure privacy and safety on such short notice.”

My brow furrowed, but I couldn’t see his expression since he’d moved behind me to pull out my chair.

I slid into the seat, and Enzo took the spot on my right while my papà sat on my left.

“Your wife’s not joining us?” Papà asked as Enrico sat beside him.

“When she heard your wife wasn’t coming, she decided to stay home with the kids,” Mr. Marchetti answered. “She claimed it would be too much testosterone for her taste.”

“I agree,” I mumbled, then, realizing I’d said it aloud, flushed crimson.

Amadeo, who’d taken a seat on the other side of Enzo, chuckled, leaning forward so he could see me better.

“You know, Pen,” Amadeo drawled, and I narrowed my eyes. Nobody aside from my parents and siblings called me Pen. “We’ll be best friends soon enough.”

My smile was strained. “I already have those.”

He waved his hand nonchalantly. “One more won’t hurt.”

“We don’t have anything in common,” I retorted dryly, but Amadeo wouldn’t be swayed.

“We have my brother in common. Your husband…?” he added when I continued to stare blankly at him.