Code of Honor (Spontagio Family 1)

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Fumbling through my closet, I let out a loud groan. All he would tell me was to dress to impress. That would help if I had anything nice. A piece of blue catches my eye. I tug on the material and hold it up. It’s flashy, sparkly, and perfect for a fancy place. I vaguely remember buying it on sale under pressure from Bella. Maybe I need a new wardrobe. I strip, and slide the dress over my hips. Thank God it still fits. Staring at myself in the mirror, I’m impressed with what I see. I don’t look half bad and after I run a brush through my hair, I’m ready to go.

“Are you ready?”

Pietro’s voice echoes through my room. I take in my appearance one last time and then walk out into the living room, where he’s waiting for me. He looks good in his charcoal pants and fitted black shirt. His hair has been lightly styled into place and as I near him, I can smell the scent of his cologne.

His unshaven jawline twitches as his eyes follow me across the room. My heart jumps, and I find myself hoping he likes what he sees. The idea of him finding me attractive gives me tingles.

“You look gorgeous,” he mumbles, his voice low.

“Thanks,” I say, smiling shyly. “You don’t look too bad yourself. Are you ready?” He nods, taking my arm as he leads me out the door. We walk out the front door, and flag down a cab. The perfect gentleman, Pietro opens the door for me, letting me enter the cab first.

“Where are we going?” I ask. Not that I care. Food is the last thing on my mind.

“Tenth Avenue, between Fifteenth and Sixteenth, please,” he says to the cab driver. Turning his attention to me, he smiles. “I scoured Yelp for the best Italian restaurant in New York. This place is supposed to be pretty good.”

“Yelp?” I giggle, biting my lip. “I was expecting a more…Pietro approach to finding a good restaurant. I thought you would’ve had connections,” I tease.

“I do have connections,” he growls, narrowing his eyes. “I also see the value in a public forum where people offer their views on their experiences. Sometimes that can be better than using a connection.”

I laugh. I’m sure he’s talking bullshit, but I’m not game enough to call him on it.

We pull up outside a fancy restaurant called Del Posto. Pietro gets out first, holding the door open for me. I grin and take his hand.

“You’re so cold,” he mumbles, pulling me against him. I breathe out, both loving and hating having him so close to me. “Let’s get inside where it’s nice and warm, huh?” I smile as he leads me through the doors, where it’s instantly warmer.

“Reservation for Gustovi. For two, thanks.”

The waiter nods graciously. “Follow me, sir.”

We’re led to a table over by the open fire. I giggle as the waiter pulls my chair out for me and then positions my napkin in my lap. Pietro watches, amused.

“It’s like you’ve never been to a fancy restaurant before,” he teases.

“Truthfully, I haven’t since I was a kid,” I admit. “You know what Dad is like. He’d much rather entertain at home than go out.”

“Yes, a true Italian trait, I believe. My parents were the same.”

Without thinking, I reach across the table and place my hand over his. He raises his eyes to meet mine, and then smiles. “So, what do you feel like? Can I interest you in a wine?”

“Why not?” I say with a grin. I hardly ever drink.

“Wow, I wasn’t expecting you to say yes, stellina. New York has changed you,” he teases. “What’s next, strippers and pole dancing?”

“Shut up and order the wine,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

He laughs and waves down our waiter. He orders a bottle of red that I’ve never heard of, but the waiter nods and smiles, making me think it must be a good choice.

We order our dinner, joking a

nd talking as we eat. After our entrées, I’m full but he convinces me to share a dessert with him. I agree and choose the tiramisu—which I end up eating most of.

“Don’t eat desserts, huh?” he teases, and I lift the last spoonful to my lips.

“What can I say? When I do eat them, I go a little crazy.” I laugh. “But honestly, I don’t care too much about eating the wrong thing every now and then. So many dancers obsess over food and making sure their bodies are perfect.” I shrug. “I obsess over too many other things to worry about what I eat.”

“Like what?” he asks. The waiter sets down the bill and I reach for it, fully intending to pay for my part. Pietro gets to it first, whisking it away from me. “I’m paying,” he says. He holds his hand up as I try to protest. I give in, letting him win, and go back to his question.