Page 26 of Thorns of Silence

As I lifted my hands to sign, something about the way he glanced around us with an uncomfortable smile had me pausing. I frowned when the realization sunk in. He was embarrassed. But why? What did he expect?

An awkward stretch followed before I dug for my phone in my clutch and pulled it out. I typed, the tips of my fingers hitting the screen a bit too roughly.How did you think we would communicate?

Baptiste knew the basics of sign language, apparently it was an elective at his high school. It was either that or woodworking, and he opted for the “easier” class, he’d told me. I shifted my phone around so he could read my question.

“We can talk,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “Type, or use our hands. Feet. Whatever.”

I typed again.So it doesn’t bother you if I sign?

“Let’s not talk about that stuff.” He clasped his hands, smiling brightly. “Now, what are you in the mood for? Chicken, fish… You Americans love beef steaks,non?”He ran his hand through his hair.“Filet de bœuf or the entrecôte.”

I rolled my eyes. That was as derogatory as me assuming all French people ate frog legs.

Thankfully, the waitress showed up with amuse-bouches and wines for us to sample.

“Would you like to taste tonight’s specials or just hear about them?” she offered, smiling brightly.

I started to sign, and again, Baptiste’s smile froze as he rubbed his neck awkwardly. Frustration bubbled in me. I didn’t expect people to know sign language, never mind ASL while I was in Europe, but it pissed me off when a person knew it and feigned ignorance. What was the fucking point.

I sighed and typed into my Notes app on my phone, then shifted the screen so the waitress could read it.Red wine and a vegetarian salad with calamari on the side.

“I’ll take the samples,” Baptiste announced. “Are they free?”

That was another thing that everyone knew about Baptiste. Even though he had money, he was kind of a cheapskate. The waitress put the tray down, then placed the dishes in front of him. His eyes fell to her cleavage and I looked away, pretending not to notice.

I rolled my eyes at his whorish ways. I didn’t want a love story, but this behavior was utterly disappointing. The least he could do was wait until our dinner was over.

My mind flashed to my first date with Dante.

Discomfort gnawed at me as he drove down the coastal highway toward our destination. It remained to be seen where we were headed.

My hair whipped in the wind and my dress billowed and fluttered around me as we sped down the streets in Dante's convertible. I wasn’t positive, but I had an inkling that Dante Leone really loved his cars.

Turning his head, he caught me observing him. I didn’t bother averting my eyes. I also got the inkling he liked my boldness, if the way his gaze traveling over me was anything to go by. My sandals. My bare legs. The ridiculous yellow dress that Isla insisted I wear.

I’d have preferred shorts and a simple top, but my best friend was in a “knock his socks off” mood, despite not knowing it was Dante taking me out. Nobody knew about my mystery man, and I’d leave it that way for a while. My sister didn’t know about this date at all or she would’ve been all over me, insisting on meeting the man I was going out with. I wanted to keep him a secret for a little while longer though.

I reached into my purse and felt for my mace. You never knew when you might need it, and I’d been in plenty of situations where a man thought me too dumb to take my “no” for a serious answer. I was deaf, not fucking dumb.

Dante’s fingers brushed over my shoulder and I turned my head his way.

“You okay?” Gosh, he had the most gorgeous lips I had ever seen. It was no hardship at all to stare at them while he spoke.

I nodded my answer.

I still didn’t understand why he wanted this date or what he was doing in California. It made me slightly suspicious of his intentions. Grandma made it clear that Papà’s enemies were also ours because of our last name. It didn’t matter we’d kept away from the underworld, we would always be a part of it by default.

Leaving my mace securely in my purse, I pulled out my phone and typed the question into my text-to-talk app.What are you doing in California? Don’t you live in Italy?

He flicked a glance at the road, then turned to me and answered. “Yes, I live in Italy. I had a business deal to work out with a vineyard here.” When I cocked my eyebrow in surprise, he continued, “A bad drought in Italy ruined my crop. I own a couple of vineyards here for that very reason.”

I snorted, then started typing again.A mobster turned winemaker?

My papà had a few legitimate business fronts. I knew from Reina and her eavesdropping that it was a norm in the underworld, but winemaking seemed like an odd choice.

I typed again.Why winemaking?

He shrugged, waiting until he stopped to type his answer.It’s relaxing. My birth mother’s family was into it and I inherited it.