Page 10 of Ruthless

When the corner of his mouth rises into a familiar smirk, my chest squeezes. I remember how that wicked tilt of his lips promised long hours of laughter and conversation before he’d put his mouth to even better use.

He’s dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a gray shirt that scream designer even to my untrained eye. He told me once that he came from old money but never explained how.

And silly, naive me never asked.

His familiar scent hits me from across the intimate table. Sandalwood and spices. Dark smoke and leather. Warm skin and the caramel chocolates he snacks on alone at night when no one can bear witness to his indulgence.

I’ve missed him so much. The urge to throw myself in his arms and kiss every inch of skin I can find almost strangles me.

After the way he dumped me, though, that would be truly pathetic. “So. About our breakup?—”

His features harden. “Shh. Let’s not speak of such things right now.”

I stifle a gasp at the pure hatred gleaming in his eyes. “Dante…”

“What’s wrong?”

“You…you look…”

I blink, trailing off as his expression softens. “Never mind.”

Yep. The bartender poured those drinks with a heavier hand than I thought.

As I study his features, I note the small changes. The gray strands at his temple, hidden by the fall of his hair. The lines around his eyes and mouth that age him beyond his thirty years,as if he experienced things that would have broken anyone else during our time apart.

“How do you like working at Mount Dinaric?”

I give the question some thought. “It’s a lot nicer than the hospital on Staten Island.” I frown. “Wait, how did you know I was working there?”

“You must have mentioned it.”

Did I? When? I must be a lot tipsier than I believed.

A young man dressed in a dark suit and carrying a bag materializes out of nowhere. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thank you.”

When I read the writing, my heart skips a beat.

Enoteca Vittoria.

The hidden little Italian restaurant with aged brick walls and soft lighting where we went on our first date.

Clearing my throat, I struggle to form words. “What’s happening? Is this your attempt at some kind of fresh start?”

I lick my bottom lip, and Dante tracks the motion the way a shark tracks blood.

“You could say that,coniglietta.”

Coniglietta.Little rabbit. His little rabbit. In bed, it was either that,bella, or my favorite,tesoro. Treasure.Histreasure. He’d often moan that particular endearment while buried deep inside me.

Hearing his sweet Italian again is the key that unlocks Pandora’s box. The memories of endless nights of pleasure flood my brain like a tidal wave. My hands clench on the edge of the table, and I squeeze my thighs together to alleviate the growing ache. “I guess at leastsomethings haven’t changed.”

He arches a thick brow, an unreadable glint in his eyes. “Do I seem different to you?”

I shrug. “How could you not,cucciolo?” If he can throw around names like bullets, then I can too.

He stiffens in his seat, his jaw tightening while my bravado fizzles out.