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We stopped at a small Italian restaurant. A man valets our car as Scott and I walked inside.
It was overly crowded, filled with big, bulky men. There was not even a single woman in sight except for the waitress in a skimpy dress that flashed her underwear as she bent to pick something off the floor.
All of the men gave Scott a nod, acknowledging his presence. A few of them stood up as Scott walked by. Why does it feel like they were all a part of their mafia? Darkness and cruelty dripped from their eyes. There were just too many tattoos, scars, and scowls in the restaurant.
They all avoided looking directly at me maybe it was because I was with their underboss. A few of them glanced at me and then looked back down at whatever they were doing like they have committed a sin.
We sat at the table in the corner, I placed my hands over it and leaned ahead. "Why do I feel like they all are scared of me?"
"Because they are."
I frowned. "Why?"
"They all are loyal to Niko. After you were kidnapped, most of them had to look for you, they know who you are. You practically have the “property of Nikolai Costello” stamped on your forehead," he explained while checking out the menu. "They are giving you respect."
"Ah..." that's all I could say.
He ordered for both of us, as usual. Whenever we went out—when I was living in my parent's house—he'd always order for me. He is such a douchebag with zero chivalry. I'm glad to see he had not changed even after apologizing.
After we had dinner, he got a call from someone. He went outside to talk leaving me alone with a bunch of dark and brooding Made Men. The waitress came by a few times asking me if I wanted anything else and I politely declined.
I wanted to go home now. My body was still sore, my muscle ached because of the boxing session this morning. I just wanted to go home and sleep it off now.
Scott came back and gestured for me to get up and follow him. I did, I settled in the passenger seat and fastened my seat belt.
"Are we going home now?" I asked him and he nodded.
All his attention was on the phone while he drove with one hand and divided attention.
"Keep your eyes on the road, I don't want to die."
He rolled his eyes playfully. "Shut up."
We finally reached home and as I was about to unfasten my seatbelt, Scott held my wrist, stopping my movement.
My eyes widened. "What?"
He glanced at my hands. "Where's that ring I gave you?"
I gestured toward the car's dashboard. "In there."
