I think of all Gio’s done for me. There’s the money, which is sort of his line of work, so that doesn’t count. But driving me to the hospital to pay for the surgery. Waiting outside Michelangelo's to drive me home.
Buying Michelangelo's to fire my boss.
I still can’t believe that one.
Gio emerges from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist. I turn over in the bed when he drops it and climbs in.
“Is it true? You really bought Michelangelo's to fire my boss?”
Gio leans up on his forearm. “I swear to Christ. You can call my brother, Nico and he’ll tell you. It was his idea.”
I blink at him, suddenly fascinated by everything about Gio Tacone—his brothers, his history, his motivations. “Which one is Nico?”
“He’s a younger brother. He lives in Vegas.”
“He runs your casino”
“Well, it’s his casino, but I’m a stakeholder, yeah.”
“So, what? You called him? About me?” I’m feeling bold, I guess, because I stretch my fingertips out to scrape them through his chest hair.
One corner of his mouth ticks up and he brushes my outstretched arm with his thumb. “Yeah. You didn’t want me to kill the guy. Nico’s proven himself to be good at—you know—more legal solutions to problems.”
Now I smile. I sort of love these glimpses into the real Gio. Not the slick charmer, but the straight-talker.
“And he told you to buy the restaurant?”
“Yeah. Or apply pressure to the owner, but I didn’t think you’d like that, either. I’m trying to be good, here, Marissa. But it keeps biting me in the ass with you.”
My heart’s pounding now.
He’s trying to be good… for me?
How is it possible I attracted the attention of such a powerful man? And moreover, that he’s worried about doing things right for me?
I scoot a little closer on the bed. “I’m sorry again for misconstruing your actions.”
He moves slowly—maybe slow enough I could stop him if I wanted—and reaches for my head. He cradles his large hand around the back of it and pulls my face up to his.
One kiss.
More like a taste. He slides his lips over mine and lets me go.
“You taste good.”
“So do you,” I whisper.
He tweaks one of my nipples. “So you gonna tell me which asshole I’m gonna fire?”
I let out a laugh with a breath. “Arnie. He’s so gross. And I’m not the only one he tries things with—he’s molested Lilah, too.”
“The other line cook?”
“Yeah, she’s awesome. You should give her a raise.”
Gio’s mouth twists into a smile. “Noted.” He brushes a strand of my hair out of my eyes. “You want the head chef position?”
“Me? Are you nuts? No!”
“Why not?”
“I’m not experienced enough. I mean, I’ve only been a line cook for a year now.”
Gio cocks his head at me. “Don’t you have a degree from some culinary institute?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“But what? Don’t you want to plan menus and create your own thing, like you did here for me?”
I scrape my fingers through his chest hair again. “I-I’m not ready for that.”
“You’ll take Arnie’s position, then. As sous chef.”
“I can’t. Really, Gio. Don’t do that.”
He narrows his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because if people find out we—” I stop, because I don’t know what we are. “They’ll say I fucked my way into the job. Especially if you fire Arnie and put me in it right away. No one will respect me. I want to work my way up. Earn it.”
Gio frowns. “We’re gonna table this conversation for a later date.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. I can live with that. “Okay. Thank you, Gio.” I snuggle in even closer, until we’re skin to skin, and press my face against his chest. He smells clean and delicious. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me in tight. Our legs tangle beneath the covers.
“There was another reason I bought Michelangelo's,” Gio says.
I go still. Shit. Was I right after all?
At first he doesn’t go on, and I’m about to prompt him when he says, “When I was a kid— way back, before I fully understood that my father was never gonna let me play piano in public, I had this idea.”
I lift my head from his chest. “What was it?”
He clears his throat. “I… well, dreamed about owning a piano bar. Some place I could be the host and schmooze with people and maybe wander over and play the piano whenever I felt like it.” His gaze is wary, like he thinks I’m about to make fun of him.
It’s a crazy moment. Gio Tacone—dangerous, powerful, beautiful man—is showing me this piece of vulnerability.
“Your father was a prick.”
“Watch it,” he growls, but it seems almost automatic. His gaze still holds oceans of vulnerability.
“He was.” I’m suddenly extremely pissed off for Gio. What kind of asshole father squashes his son’s dream of playing piano because he thinks it’s not masculine enough? What a jerk. “You’ll make the perfect restaurant/piano bar host.”