Ruthless Monarch

“So, we’re going to dinner?” she asks.

“We are.”

“Where’re we going?”

I can either tell her or not tell her, but for some reason, toying with her doesn’t hold merit. Maybe it’s because I know she is a dog with a bone when she wants information.

“I have an employee. I’m not sure if you met him. His name is Marco, and his family owns a restaurant. It’s quite good, and I wanted to take you there.”

“That sounds nice.” For the rest of the trip, we don’t speak of anything important. She asks me little questions, not about anything life-changing, and I ask her little questions back. By the time we reach the parking lot, I found out that while living in the city, she volunteered what little spare time she had walking the dogs at a shelter and teaching children how to read.

My wife is a saint. I don’t deserve her, but fuck if I won’t try to keep her.

The car stops, and I swing the door open, reaching my hand out to help her from the car. Marco’s restaurant is the perfect location from the outside. It’s off the beaten path, set higher on a hill but with a view of the water.

I’m surprised I’ve never been here before. It’s quiet and quaint, and knowing it has the cellar gives it a bonus.

No one would think of this place, and since it’s close to the ocean, it’s not a far drive from the port. The less time in transit, the better.

Holding Viviana’s hand, I lead us into the restaurant. The sun is starting to set in the distance, and when Viviana steps inside, the view from the windows makes her gasp. I had no idea it would be like this, but now seeing it, I can see why she’s staring at me with stars in her eyes.

This place is romantic as fuck. The restaurant is relatively empty. There are a few tables in which people sit. Marco is there to greet us. He leads us to a table right by the large bay window that overlooks the water.

There’s a scattering of tea lights already lit. The table is set, and it looks as though I had pre-planned this. I’m going to have to throw in some extra money to thank him.

“Marco, this is my wife, Viviana. Viviana, this is Marco.”

I introduce them. Marco reaches his hand out and takes Viviana’s small one in his. He places one kiss on the top of her hand. If he wasn’t so old, old enough to be my father’s age, I would probably kick his teeth in for touching my wife, but I can tell there’s no desire there, just respect.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Viviana.” His thick Italian accent rolls her name off his tongue like pearls.

She smiles warmly at him. “The pleasure is all mine.”

We take our seats, our chairs sitting beside each other. As soon as we are no longer standing, I place my hand on her leg. She’s staring out the window, enjoying the view.

“This place is perfect.”

“Well, it’s the least I can do for leaving you home alone so much.”

“About that . . .” She sounds . . . different. There’s an edge to her voice.

“About what?”

“I’m bored.” She pouts. “Without you there to distract me, I need something to do.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. I don’t think getting a job in the city right now is that doable, but maybe we can find something that will make you happy for the time being.”

“Such as?” Her brow furrows.

“You can help Giana.”

“Help her with what?”

“The family runs many different operations.”

“I don’t think—”

“Not those kinds of operations. Nothing with that part of the business. One of the things that Giana works on is our charity work.”

“You do charity?”

“Of course, I do charity. What kind of man do you think I am? Strike that, don’t answer.”

Viviana reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers.

“I think you are a good man. I think to most people you pretend to be different, but I see you. You aren’t the villain most people say you are.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I’m every bit the monster they say I am.”

Her head tilts to the side as if she’s assessing what I’ve said, but instead of appearing shocked or scared, she looks at me with adoring eyes. Eyes that make me think I can tell her everything. Show her everything. Talk to her about everything.

“What is it?” she asks, and it seems she can read me more than I knew. “There’s something you aren’t saying.”

“I need your help.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking yet.”

“I don’t care. The answer is still okay.”

“I need your help taking down your father.”

There, I’ve said it. The gauntlet has been thrown, so now to see how she responds.

“Whatever you need, Matteo.” She leans forward, placing her lips on mine. “I’m yours.”