Collateral (Collateral Damage 1)

I turn away, unsure why I’m looking at him like this. I hate him. He’s my enemy.

The ring on my finger weighs heavy and I twist it in a circle as we pull out, a new SUV drives out ahead of us, blinking its lights once as we turn the corner.

“This is a production,” I say, realizing they’re part of Stefan’s security team.

“A necessary one,” he answers.

Palermo is a busy city with a lot of tourists and mostly a walking town. It’s old, and beautiful.

“I’ve never been south of Rome,” I say. Even though we’ve spent summers here for as long as I can remember, my father isn’t a fan of anything farther south than Rome. In fact, he detests it. Especially Sicily.

“You’ve missed out,” Stefan says.

“Where are we going?” I ask as the driver veers to the right and toward an obviously less traveled road.

He leans toward his window. “See the lights up there?” he asks.

I lean toward him to look up. “Yes.”

“There’s a little-known restaurant, well, little known to tourists. They don’t venture up this far and certainly not on foot. It’s local food at its best. Simple and delicious. And one of the few places I can relax.”

That last part strikes me and when I shift my gaze to his, I realize how close I’m leaning.

I clear my throat and inch farther.

“And you get a beautiful view of the city from up there.”

It takes another ten minutes of driving on a single lane, unpaved road that snakes in tight curves. I think I could get carsick here but before that happens, we arrive and I’m climbing out into the fresh night air which is cooler than I expect up here.

“I should have brought a sweater,” I say absently, hugging my arms to myself.

Stefan takes off his jacket. “Here.” He puts it around my shoulders before I can protest and it’s warm and I smell him on it, and I find I don’t want to protest.

“Thank you.”

He nods as we step up onto a platform where colored lights are strung. I can see more of them around the back. The steady sound of quiet conversation flows from the back and I guess seating is outside if I look at the size of the building.

The glass door opens from the inside and an older man comes out with a big smile on his face, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Stefan!” he exclaims, hugging Stefan who hugs him back.

They exchange greetings in Italian, and I get the feeling they know each other well.

Stefan turns to me and introduces me as his fiancée.

The man gives me an approving nod but doesn’t shake my offered hand.

When I glance at Stefan, I find him watching.

I drop my hand to my side.

We’re led through the small building and I’m right. All the seating is outside because the inside is a kitchen and the food smells amazing. Our table is at the very back corner and I take the seat the man pulls out for me as Stefan takes the one across from mine.

The man leaves, telling us he’ll bring some drinks and an appetizer.

“Why didn’t he shake my hand?” I ask.

“He showed respect.”

“Respect? I think that was a lack of respect. Is it because I’m a woman?”

“Relax, Gabriela. This is Sicily and Lorenzo is in his eighties.”

Lorenzo returns with a bottle of wine and sets a plate of appetizers on the table between us.

Stefan smiles wide, thanks the man and nods his permission for Lorenzo to pour me some wine.

“Panelle,” Stefan says. “It rivals Millie’s but don’t tell her I said that.”

“Did you just give him permission to pour me a glass of wine?” I ask.

Stefan’s smile fades. “We do things differently here, Gabriela. Don’t get hung up on it. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. He doesn’t shake my hand. He doesn’t ask me if I even want wine. Maybe I wanted something else.”

“He’s being respectful. Enough of this.”

“Respectful to you but disrespectful to me.”

Stefan sips from his glass, leaning back in his seat and studying me.

“No, not that,” he says simply, casually but finally. “You belong to me, Gabriela. He knows that. You need to wrap your brain around it. This is your new life, like it or not, and if you ask me, there isn’t much to dislike. You’ll have everything.”

“Everything I don’t want.”

“Don’t be a child.”

I exhale, shrug off his jacket and push my chair back to stand.

He puts his hand on mine to stop me.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I lie. “If you don’t want me to act like a child then don’t treat me like one. Now I need to use the bathroom and I’m not asking your permission.”

His eyes narrow and one side of his mouth quirks upward. He moves his hand and I stand, but he gestures for one of his men who walks to the door and opens it, waiting for me.