The Italian

I need to diffuse this situation. “Enrico, go back to your table. We’ll talk after I have my dinner.” He narrows his eyes at Franco. “Please, Rico,” I whisper.

His eyes find mine. “Outside. Now.”

“What?”

He takes my hand and pulls me from my chair without saying another word. Before I know it, I’m being marched toward the door.

“What are you doing?” I whisper angrily.

“What the fuck are you doing? Lui chi è?” Translation: who is he?

“Speak English!” I snap as we burst out through the doors and into the restaurant foyer.

“Who is that?” he growls.

Words escape me. What the hell do I say?

“Chi diavolo è lui, Olivia? Translation: who in the fucking hell is he, Olivia?

“You’re trying my patience. Answer my question. Who is that man?” he barks.

“He’s my date.”

“What?” I flinch. “Vi ammazzo entrambi con le mie fottute mani.” Translation: I’ll kill you both with my bare fucking hands.

The door of the restaurant bursts open, and Franco appears.

I turn toward him in a rush. I know I need to get rid of him. “I need to talk to you. Inside… now.”

“I thought I told you to fuck off!” Franco yells at Rico.

Jeez, what is this power tripper on? “Franco, stop, please.”

Enrico steps closer to Franco. “Be very careful.”

“You be careful,” Franco replies.

“Franco, stop it.” Ugh, all men are idiots.

“Get away from her,” Franco says as he pushes Enrico hard in the chest.

Enrico smiles at Franco, and he has this creepy calmness about him. “Push me again,” he dares him.

My eyes widen. “Stop it!”

“Go on,” Enrico whispers.

What the actual hell is going on here? “Stop it, you idiots.”

“Get on Tinder and find your own date!” Franco yells.

Enrico’s horrified eyes come to me. “You met him on Tinder?”

My heart sinks.

Enrico loses control and turns to Franco. He punches him hard in the face, and Franco floats to the ground like a feather.

“Oh my God!” I bend to help Franco. “What the hell are you doing?”