Page 9

Amelia---Knock Him Dead

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, shifting my weight as I consider which pair of shoes to wear. Even though I normally refuse to dress for men, there is a pull to Rhodes that is making me second guess every piece of clothing I’ve put on my body. There are clothes strewn across the floor, covering my quilt on top of my bed.

The dress I’m in is a deep emerald, almost black with long sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a flared skirt that reaches mid-thigh. The velvet is like a comforting hug, soothing the nerves that have skittered along my bones and igniting a feeling in my belly I haven’t felt in a long time—if ever. I’ve coaxed my hair into smooth waves, the purple standing against the deep sepia tones, and my signature red is painted on my lips.

I look good.

No, I look like I could bring a man to his knees.

The alarm goes off on my phone, letting me know I have five minutes before I have to leave. I’m meeting Rhodes at the restaurant, and I’m thankful he didn’t push the envelope when I refused him picking me up. I don’t want him at my home yet. It is my sacred space, the one place where my darkness doesn’t bleed into. It felt good, walking with him. I felt—I don’t know— safe when Rhodes took control of the conversation. But, I know all too well that safety is an illusion and I can’t bring myself to allow a man into my sanctuary.

Choosing a pair of heels, I grab my leather jacket before slipping it over my shoulders as I head out the door. My nerves are live-wires on the drive. I don’t know the last time I’ve been this anxious. I keep telling myself that it is just dinner—just another meeting—but my heart wants it to mean something more. My soul aches for Rhodes to smile at me or to have my name fall from his lips. He is the first man to have a simple conversation with me, one without motive or pretense. I don’t know what to do with the feeling, but I know I want more of it.

I park, taking a moment to center myself in my car before getting out and heading toward the restaurant. It’s a small mom-and-pop place, one that has been here for ages. Capiolla’s has the best arrabbiata sauce I’ve ever had and my mouth is already watering at the thought of it. A small, internal voice whispers I should order a salad but I silence it.

I will order what I damn well please.

The smell of Italian food hits my nose the second I step through the door and I internally do a happy dance. The ambiance here is warm, the chatter adding a layer of ease to the already assuaging feeling Capiolla’s embodies. My eyes roam the dim room, searching for Rhodes. I give my name to the hostess, unsure if I’m early. She leads me back toward a darkened corner and I see him.

The lights may be low, but I can see the way the shadows play with the growth along his defined jaw and how the glow from tabletop candles bounces off the hair falling across his shoulders. I want to run my fingers through the strands. The fit of his suit is utter perfection, like it was crafted for him alone. The set is a shade of navy so dark it could be black, the jacket open to reveal a crisp cream shirt with one button undone to offer the slightest glimpse of his chest. His sleeves sit at just the right spot on his wrists. I reach the table and he stands, the hint of a smile ghosting his face as I feel his eyes rake down my body before coming back to meet mine.

“Gods, Amelia. I’m so glad you came.” My chest tightens at the way my name sounds coming from him. The gravel in his voice, a soft confidence, makes my heart skip a beat.

“Hi. Thanks for getting the best spot in the place,” I respond quietly, feeling the heat bloom on my cheeks. Rhodes moves slightly behind me and I shrug my leather jacket off. He grips it, gently setting it on the back of my chair before pulling my chair out for me. I sit, feeling his hands hover above my shoulders before he rounds back to his own seat.

Rhodes’ suit jacket comes off as he sits, the green in his eyes sparkling with mischief. A dimple on the left side of his face makes an appearance as a slow smile creeps on his lips.

Of course he has a dimple.

A waiter, one I’ve never seen here, takes our drink orders and I peruse the menu. I already know what I’m ordering, but I also don’t really want to fill the air with awkward stares or say something I shouldn’t. My gaze lifts, catching him staring back at me, his menu still on the table.

“Can I help you?”

“What are you going to get?” he asks, those green orbs never leaving mine. I decide to test the waters…just a little bit.

“A salad. Probably the one with chicken, oil, and vinegar on the side. Hold the bread basket.”

“Really?”

I hum, keeping my face low. I scan the rest of the menu, despite knowing I’ll actually order something different.

“Bullshit.” I jerk my eyes to his face, pausing as his lips morph into a knowing smirk. “I don’t think you’re a salad kind of woman. No, I definitely don’t think you settle. Not in a place like this.”

I place the menu back on the table, inhaling deeply and setting my hands on top of the menu. The urge to pick a cuticle consumes me.

“What should I order then?”

He leans back, crossing his arms across his chest, his biceps flexing. His head tilts and I suddenly feel the room shrink, trapping us in a vacuum where we are the only ones existing.

“You’d order the bread basket, demanding the waiter to not let it go empty. You wouldn’t go for something light because dinners out are for indulging. You’d choose the pasta, of course,” he pauses, eyes narrowing as he holds me with a stare. “The arrabbiata sauce, no cheese because it detracts from the simplicity of the dish. You’ll pick either the tiramisu or the cannoli for dessert, but it’ll depend on how the night goes and if you order more than a single glass of red at dinner. If you switch to whiskey, it’ll be the tiramisu.”

“You barely know me,” I whisper, on edge at how accurate he just was. As someone who has a pulse on all the movement within her territory, a man knowing me this well makes me tick.

“I was a Special Operations sniper before retiring three years ago. Reading people was my job. Despite you having your walls up, there are still small tells I notice. You smiled when you walked in the door—an actual smile, which means this place is familiar to you.” Rhodes pauses, watching my reaction.

Capiolla’s has been a fixture in my life, even when nothing else was constant. The intimate restaurant is connected to my family in ways that cannot be unraveled. I sat at these tables as a girl, my feet unable to touch the floor, as my father dealt with business. There are memories of being reminded by powerful men that as a lady, I should act accordingly—no pasta or bread basket for my mother and me. Mafia women are held to higher standards, those within the Families even more so. Sometimes though, if I didn’t disappoint him, my father would allow me to order the tiramisu. The explosion of flavors was a reward, a moment of joy in the darkness.

Rhodes’ voice cuts through the memory. “The menu was in your hands but you kept going back to one section. Plus, you don’t seem to be the type to deny yourself good food.” He shifts, moving his forearms to the table.

“I would stop while you're ahead, Rhodes. Surely you aren’t saying what I think I just heard,” I say, pinning him with a glare.

“You walked in and the world stopped for me. This dress is deadly, Amelia. You look so damn good, baby. You take what you want and that is attractive as fuck. I don’t want you to shrink yourself around me.” His voice drops, low and soothing. “You want the pasta, you order the pasta. If you want dessert too? Take it. If you want to leave here and go someplace else? Let’s go.”

Baby. He’d called me baby. I’m not sure if he meant for that to slip. I couldn’t let him know how it affected me, the way that one word made the wall around my heart crack. A term of endearment never used when describing me, those four letters are enough to make me falter. I’ve always been ‘Amelia’ to the men around me. Men bred by power don’t waste breath with pet names. I steady my breathing and pray he’s not looking at me as my gaze drops to my hands. I can’t bring myself to raise my head because I know the second I do, my body will betray me.

“Watching you strut toward this table, knowing that every eye was on you? I am the luckiest man in the room. I couldn’t believe you agreed to meet me,” he continues. “So get the pasta, Amelia.

The waiter reappears and we order our meals. Rhodes chooses the osso bucco and I have the pasta. When I ask for the bread basket, I glance at Rhodes, finding that his gaze isn’t anywhere other than on me. I am the center of his attention.

Time passes easily and as our plates are placed in front of us, the smell of fresh pasta wafts up to my nose. There is something magical about good pasta smothered in a simple sauce. I gather a few of the penne on my fork before taking a bite. Flavor erupts on my tongue and I am so glad I didn’t order a salad. Gods, this sauce is sinful. I grab a slice of the garlic bread, dipping the crust in the spicy red sauce. I am so engrossed in my dinner, I don’t realize Rhodes is staring at me.

Fuck. I slowly set the piece of bread down on my plate, reaching for the napkin I’d sat in my lap. I gently dab at my mouth before plastering a smile on my face and meeting his gaze. “Sorry, I should have been talking with you, not stuffing my face with pasta. I’m sorry.”

Rhodes chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m not sorry,” he says in a low whisper. “If that is the joy pasta brings you,” Rhodes nods at my fork. “Go on, baby. You enjoy your dinner and I’ll enjoy watching you.”

“Where is your favorite place in the world?” I ask, reaching toward the bread basket for another piece.

He rubs his palm against his mouth, the other hand crossing to grab his elbow, as he thinks. I’ve learned the big things—his favorite color (grey), the way he drinks his coffee (black), and his fears (spiders and clowns). For some reason though, I want this answer more than any other.

“There is a lake near where I grew up that you have to travel by foot. Once you reach the end of the paved road, it is nothing but wilderness. There are pine trees as far as you can see and the lake is small, but that sky? It is enough to make a man appreciate something greater than himself.” His eyes close and I feel a smile playing with my lips. “I remember sitting on that pebbled bank, watching the birds come in and feeling the wind play with nature. I haven’t found another place that compares.”

“That sounds wonderful.” My mind whirls thinking of my upbringing. “I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced that kind of beauty.”

The reality of my life is that there isn’t much joy in the madness. I have but one place where I can let everything fall down and I don’t have to hold the world on my shoulders.

“What about you? Where are you happiest?”

“I have a cat, Lennon. He’s this grumpy Maine Coon who hates everyone but, somehow, we work well. On Sundays, I make cinnamon pancakes and Lennon steals some pieces of banana off the counter while I cook. He’s the silliest thing, but I love him.” He smiles softly, listening to me ramble. “My home is probably where I’m happiest, honestly. Hearing Lennon chirp if I don’t give him his treats fast enough, being able to put on my comfy clothes? Yeah, I like that.”

The conversation has been easy, and I relax into my chair, removing the napkin from my lap. Spotting our waiter, I lift my hand. I want dessert.

The man doesn’t address me, speaking directly to Rhodes. “Is there anything else I can get you?” Fuck this. I respond, keeping my tone controlled.

“Yes,” I say, slightly turning so that I am fully facing the man. “I will take the tiramisu, please.” A slight sneer forms on the waiter’s face, and despite trying to hide it, he obviously doesn’t approve of something I’ve said. I inhale, holding to the hope I won’t have to be aggressive. All I want is tiramisu—without a side of patriarchy, for the love of all things.

“Have you seen the other options, miss?”

Tonight is no different, then.

I straighten, placing one hand on the table. “I asked for the tiramisu. I did not stutter, did I?” I glance at Rhodes, waiting for him to interject but he just smiles knowingly. I continue, my voice clear. “If I wanted to know the specials, I’d have asked for the owner, demanding you tell him that Amelia Conte would like to speak with him.” The waiter pales at the mention of my name. “Now, are we going to have a problem?”

Running my tongue along the ridges of my lips, I watch the waiter’s jaw tighten as the realization dawns. I will not be made a fool, not here—not ever. His eyes dart to Rhodes, who simply sits expectantly. One quirk of an eyebrow forces the waiter to return his attention to me.

“Well?” I question, refusing to yield. “Is there a problem?” A shake of his head is the only answer I receive. “Good.” I face Rhodes once again, asking if he’d like dessert as well.

His eyes are sparkling once more, boring into me in a way that should make me squirm. It only leaves me breathless. “I’ll have the gelato,” he says, never breaking eye contact. With a nod, we are alone again.

I want to eat my favorite dessert in my favorite restaurant. That’s all. I place my hands on the table, my left thumb picking at the pad of my right index finger. I hate when I have to blur the line of personal and professional.

I don’t notice Rhodes reaching for my hands until it is too late and his skin is on mine. I flinch, pulling my hands back toward myself.

I feel her hands, gentle and soft; a complete opposite to what I’ve experienced otherwise tonight, and it hurts in a way I know it shouldn’t. Her touch shouldn’t hurt. This is Parker, my best friend, and all my body can do is shout in pain.

My eyes turn downcast and I can feel shame begin to creep into my mind. I shouldn’t flinch at the simple reach of his hands for mine. Rhodes isn’t them.

“Your dessert.” I hear the waiter, but I don’t move my eyes.

A plate of liquor-soaked sponge is now sitting before me and I can’t bring myself to lift the spoon. The mood is ruined and I softly ask for a carryout box. I’ll eat it later—most likely in my sweats at midnight.

Alone.

The waiter returns, box and check in-hand. Rhodes pays, and we make our way to the door. Rhodes lets me lead but I can feel his hand just at the small of my back. Once we reach the sidewalk, I spin on my heel, wanting to explain what just happened.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go south. I honestly didn’t think that ordering tiramisu would be a big deal.”

“Amelia.”

Ignoring the man currently illuminated by the city lights the way the sun shines through the trees in a morning fog, I open my mouth to say something as Rhodes takes one step toward me, then another. Another step. He’s now too close. He can’t be that close.

He dips his head, a softness lacing his voice as he speaks. “Always get the tiramisu.”

I take a small step back, putting distance between us, and I see the understanding cross his face.

“You are safe with me, Amelia.” I know this, intrinsically. My head is shouting at me that I can’t trust a man, but my heart is aggressively whispering that Rhodes is a safe space. My heart wants me to trust him.

“I had a good time tonight,” he says quietly. “I’d like to see you again, if you’d let me?”

I worry my lips together, gripping the brown carryout container in my hands tighter than I should. One more date couldn’t hurt right? You don’t know if this was a date, Ames. It could just be dinner between two people. Don’t get your hopes up.

“You had fun?” My voice is full of doubt, all confidence I’d had at the start of the night has faded.

“Amelia, I had a wonderful time with you on this date. I would very much like to do it again.”

It was a date.

“Okay,” I whisper.