Venice Nights (His Submissive #4.5)(9)
Author: Ava Claire

Jacob could have resented Allegra for the effect her relationship had on his family, but he found her years later and they built a friendship not built on secrets and stolen moments.

While I didn’t agree with the circumstances that led to her being a part of Jacob’s life, I couldn’t dislike Allegra if I tried. She had a big heart. She didn’t judge me for my quick promotion. She single-handedly pulled me back from the ledge when I was tempted to knock out Rachel Laraby. And she believed in my relationship when I worried I had screwed things up irreparably by lying to Jacob.

And if she was here now, she’d make walking through the door a little easier, I thought glumly, gripping Jacob’s arm as an older gentleman opened the back door.

The man before us was barely five feet tall and probably a hundred pounds soaking wet, but he held himself like a gladiator about to make his name in the coliseum. He was dressed modestly in a t-shirt and vest, tufts of gray hair sticking out from his newsboy cap.

“Signor Whitmore.” His gravelly voice matched his tough exterior, but his fierce, sun weathered face softened as his lips spread into a grin. “Everything is ready for you.”

“Grazie, Giancarlo,” Jacob said, returning the smile. He looked down at me, blue pools caressing my nerves until I stopped shaking. “This is my Leila.”

My Leila. My cheeks burning with a heat that left no part of me untouched.

Giancarlo removed his hat, nodding. “Signorina. Giancarlo Fignorino, at your service.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said softly, still tingling from the way Jacob turned my name into the sweetest thing I had ever heard.

“Shall we?”

Jacob held the door for us, and I followed Giancarlo into the restaurant. The smell of baking bread wrapped around me like a warm blanket, and I inhaled, taking off my shades.

“It smells delicious,” I said, mouth watering. We stepped into the kitchen. The cook acknowledged us with a slight nod, then went back to work. The kitchen was rustic with a charm that reminded me of the simplicity of my grandmother’s kitchen. It was welcoming. Relaxing. I knew every dish that was served was made with care and heart.

Giancarlo stopped beside the oven, cutting into a slice of bread wrapped in a towel. He brought it over to me.

“For you.”

I brought it to my lips and took a bite, rosemary and butter colliding on my tastebuds. I let out a moan that summed up how delicious it was, better than any words could have.

“Careful—you’ll make me jealous,” Jacob joked.

“Try this.” I held it to his lips.

He took a bite, chewing it slowly. When he finished, he nodded in agreement. “We’ll take a loaf of that.”

“Benissimo,” Giancarlo said. He turned to the cook and spoke a few words before leading us out into the dining room.

It was as quaint as the kitchen. It was not like we were at a restaurant at all, but guests at Giancarlo’s home. I looked at the other patrons, all enjoying their meals and chattering excitedly. I relaxed, glad I left the house.

“This is nice,” I said softly as Giancarlo pulled out a chair for me.

“I wouldn’t steer you wrong,” Jacob said smoothly. He picked up the bottle of red wine at the center of the table and poured it into my glass. He wisely filled it as much as possible while allowing it room to breathe.

I settled in my seat, preparing to remove my scarf. Glad for a little bit of normal. But a flash of light sliced through the moment, reminding me that we could not enjoy a meal out, even here.

Giancarlo’s face darkened with anger as he excused himself and stormed out the front door. He stared down every single one off them, even though the jerkiest of the bunch still had their cameras going, ignoring the terse words he spat at them.

The older man came back inside the restaurant, a weary look on his face. “I’m sorry. They can’t come indoors, but I can’t stop them from taking the pictures from outside.”

“It’s all right, Giancarlo,” Jacob said, taking a tight sip of his wine. “We just want to enjoy our meal. We’re sorry to inconvenience you.”

“You are no inconvenience,” Giancarlo said furtively. “I will check on your bread.”

I gulped down the wine, ignoring the droplets that spilled down my chin. I focused on the body of the wine. I squeezed my eyes shut, like that would make it go away.

I popped a single eye open when the flow stopped. I had run out of wine. I put the glass down and reached for the bottle, my hand trembling. Jacob covered my shaking hand with his steady one, his voice low and comforting.

“Let me.”

He poured the remainder of the wine in my glass and signaled for a second bottle.

I looked at the tablecloth, my cheeks burning as dark as the merlot. “I probably shouldn’t. It’s not even five.”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted. “This is Venice. The appropriate time to drink is whenever you feel the urge.”

I tucked a rebel tendril back beneath my scarf. “That could be…dangerous.”

When I finally met his eyes, I knew that he saw right through my sad effort to pretend I was okay.

“Are you ready to be honest with me?”

I licked my dry lips, cringing inwardly at the slice of pain as my tongue hit the chapped surface. I tried to sit up a little taller, fighting to keep eye contact with him and not the window behind him. The photographers were still clicking away.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, gripping the arms of my chair.

“You’re not nearly as good a liar as you think, Leila.” Jacob stroked the stem of his wine glass, lighting an erotic fire in my belly. I wanted to surrender to that—anything but the truth. But Jacob was not letting me off so easy.

“I know you’re stressed out about the paparazzi. What I don’t know is why you won’t talk to me about it.”

“Right,” I scoffed at that. “What do you want me to say, Jacob? That I’m paranoid? Trapped in a constant state of nervousness?”

“Sure.”

I jutted out my chin. “I don’t want to talk about who weak I am or how crazy this is making me.” I pulled the knot that held my curly locks at bay, tossing the silk onto the table with disgust. What was the point? They knew who I was.

I unbuttoned my coat, angrily pulling my arms free. “You’re not fazed by any of this. What good is moaning and complaining?”

“Because this is as big a culture shock to you as going to a foreign country,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “You shouldn’t be ashamed, Leila. Hell, if you didn’t go a little crazy with all of this, I would have been a little leery. There’s a certain kind of person that thrives under nonstop attention—and that’s not the kind of person I’m interested in sharing my life with.”