Monster in His Eyes
Page 28
"You look nice," he says, cutting his eyes at me as he pulls back into traffic. "Are you hungry?"
"A little," I admit. "You don't have to take me anywhere, though."
"Nonsense. I need to eat, too. What are you hungry for?" Before I can get out a response, he cuts in again. "And don't say 'whatever' or 'anything' or 'it doesn't matter', because those aren't answers."
"Uh, I don't know."
"That's not an answer, either."
"Fine. Pizza."
"Delivery, takeout, or eat in?"
I laugh. "Eat in, I guess."
He nods once, acknowledging me, then drives in silence. I stare out the side window as the city flies by, watching as he takes me straight across the bridge into Brooklyn. He heads deep into the borough to a section I'm only familiar with by reputation, a rough and tumble kind of neighborhood.
Old graffiti covers the outside of some of the buildings as he pulls down a side street and stops about halfway down the block, in front of an old brick building. It looks much like every other place nearby, but people stand outside in front of it and huddle on benches, chatting as they wait around.
Naz parks across the street, right along the curb beneath a tree. I stare at the place, noting the small sign that indicates it's a pizzeria. I didn't expect anything fancy, but this… this doesn't look like somewhere Naz would frequent.
He surprises me, though. He helps me out of the car, pressing his palm to my back as he leads me across the street toward the pizzeria. I realize, as we approach, that the people sitting outside are waiting for tables, but Naz shrugs that off when I point it out to him.
Stepping inside, he pauses and glances around. The place is packed, filled with customers. The inside is a stark difference from the outside, a hidden gem in a seedy neighborhood. Not upscale, but not the dump I imagined from across the street.
It only takes a few seconds for Naz to be acknowledged. A man strutting by just happens to look our way, doing a double take, his footsteps stalling. "Vitale."
Naz nods.
"You need a table?"
Another nod.
"Coming right up, my friend."
I'm flabbergasted. I don't even have a chance to say anything about it before we're led through the restaurant, to a small table that's just now being cleared. We stand there for a second as they rush to clean the area, before Naz pulls out a chair for me. I slip into it, eyeing him peculiarly when he sits down across from me.
He picks up a menu, his gaze wholly focused on it, but the corner of his lip turns up into a smirk, flashing that dimple at me. I've never seen someone look so downright cocky before.
Why is that so hot to me?
"So did you call ahead again?" I ask, picking up my menu. "Cash in another favor?"
He laughs at my question. "No, not this time."
"Then how'd you do that?"
"Do what?"
"You know what," I say. "You didn't even say a word to that man and he seated you right away."
"He knows me."
"I figured that much, Vitale."
He flinches when I say his last name, his expression falling as his gaze abandons the menu to settle on me instead. "Don't call me that."
His tone isn't sharp, but it's most definitely no-nonsense. Not a question, nor is it a request. That's a demand. My skin prickles, that look in his eyes resurfacing as he regards me silently before turning to his menu again. I can tell he isn't reading it. He's staring at it like he's seeing through it.
After a moment, he meets my eyes again, that dark look fading. "They're friends of the family. Nothing more. Having a big family comes with perks. It doesn't just happen at restaurants, either. It's everywhere I go. Get used to it, sweetheart."
"It's just strange," I mumble, picking up my menu. "I don't know that I could ever get used to that."
"You will," he says. "Because it'll start happening to you, too."
I laugh at that. "Yeah, right."
"I'm serious," he says. "Just wait."
Rolling my eyes, I glance down at the menu, scanning through it for something to eat. Unlike the last time he took me to dinner, this I can read.
The waiter stops by while I'm still deciding and Naz greets him briskly, requesting a bottle of 2008 Paolo Bea Santa Chiara. I have no idea what that is, but as the waiter rushes off to retrieve it, I feel a peculiar sense of déjà vu. "Are you trying to get me drunk again?"
"I like to indulge, too, Karissa," he replies. "You getting drunk and loose is just an added bonus."
Laughing, I playfully kick him under the table. He smiles at me, closing his menu as the waiter returns with the bottle of wine. He uncorks it, and Naz takes over, pouring us each a small glass before setting the bottle aside. We order then—a margherita pizza to share. The wine is a strange translucent peach color and has a slight orange tang, going down smoothly.
Naz watches me, his eyes scanning my face as another man approaches our table. He's older, with slicked back black hair and a thick moustache, short and stumpy. He smiles wide, nodding as he greets Naz by name. Last name. "Vitale."
Naz doesn't seem fazed when everyone else does it. "Signore Andretti."
That's the extent of what I understand. The men launch into conversation, the words flowing fluently, but every bit of it is foreign to my ears. Italian, I gather, from the smooth tone and romantic sounding enunciations. They're both smiling, the air around them friendly. Naz laughs after a moment as the other man motions toward me. I'm mid-drink, nearly choking on the wine when their attention shifts.
"A little," I admit. "You don't have to take me anywhere, though."
"Nonsense. I need to eat, too. What are you hungry for?" Before I can get out a response, he cuts in again. "And don't say 'whatever' or 'anything' or 'it doesn't matter', because those aren't answers."
"Uh, I don't know."
"That's not an answer, either."
"Fine. Pizza."
"Delivery, takeout, or eat in?"
I laugh. "Eat in, I guess."
He nods once, acknowledging me, then drives in silence. I stare out the side window as the city flies by, watching as he takes me straight across the bridge into Brooklyn. He heads deep into the borough to a section I'm only familiar with by reputation, a rough and tumble kind of neighborhood.
Old graffiti covers the outside of some of the buildings as he pulls down a side street and stops about halfway down the block, in front of an old brick building. It looks much like every other place nearby, but people stand outside in front of it and huddle on benches, chatting as they wait around.
Naz parks across the street, right along the curb beneath a tree. I stare at the place, noting the small sign that indicates it's a pizzeria. I didn't expect anything fancy, but this… this doesn't look like somewhere Naz would frequent.
He surprises me, though. He helps me out of the car, pressing his palm to my back as he leads me across the street toward the pizzeria. I realize, as we approach, that the people sitting outside are waiting for tables, but Naz shrugs that off when I point it out to him.
Stepping inside, he pauses and glances around. The place is packed, filled with customers. The inside is a stark difference from the outside, a hidden gem in a seedy neighborhood. Not upscale, but not the dump I imagined from across the street.
It only takes a few seconds for Naz to be acknowledged. A man strutting by just happens to look our way, doing a double take, his footsteps stalling. "Vitale."
Naz nods.
"You need a table?"
Another nod.
"Coming right up, my friend."
I'm flabbergasted. I don't even have a chance to say anything about it before we're led through the restaurant, to a small table that's just now being cleared. We stand there for a second as they rush to clean the area, before Naz pulls out a chair for me. I slip into it, eyeing him peculiarly when he sits down across from me.
He picks up a menu, his gaze wholly focused on it, but the corner of his lip turns up into a smirk, flashing that dimple at me. I've never seen someone look so downright cocky before.
Why is that so hot to me?
"So did you call ahead again?" I ask, picking up my menu. "Cash in another favor?"
He laughs at my question. "No, not this time."
"Then how'd you do that?"
"Do what?"
"You know what," I say. "You didn't even say a word to that man and he seated you right away."
"He knows me."
"I figured that much, Vitale."
He flinches when I say his last name, his expression falling as his gaze abandons the menu to settle on me instead. "Don't call me that."
His tone isn't sharp, but it's most definitely no-nonsense. Not a question, nor is it a request. That's a demand. My skin prickles, that look in his eyes resurfacing as he regards me silently before turning to his menu again. I can tell he isn't reading it. He's staring at it like he's seeing through it.
After a moment, he meets my eyes again, that dark look fading. "They're friends of the family. Nothing more. Having a big family comes with perks. It doesn't just happen at restaurants, either. It's everywhere I go. Get used to it, sweetheart."
"It's just strange," I mumble, picking up my menu. "I don't know that I could ever get used to that."
"You will," he says. "Because it'll start happening to you, too."
I laugh at that. "Yeah, right."
"I'm serious," he says. "Just wait."
Rolling my eyes, I glance down at the menu, scanning through it for something to eat. Unlike the last time he took me to dinner, this I can read.
The waiter stops by while I'm still deciding and Naz greets him briskly, requesting a bottle of 2008 Paolo Bea Santa Chiara. I have no idea what that is, but as the waiter rushes off to retrieve it, I feel a peculiar sense of déjà vu. "Are you trying to get me drunk again?"
"I like to indulge, too, Karissa," he replies. "You getting drunk and loose is just an added bonus."
Laughing, I playfully kick him under the table. He smiles at me, closing his menu as the waiter returns with the bottle of wine. He uncorks it, and Naz takes over, pouring us each a small glass before setting the bottle aside. We order then—a margherita pizza to share. The wine is a strange translucent peach color and has a slight orange tang, going down smoothly.
Naz watches me, his eyes scanning my face as another man approaches our table. He's older, with slicked back black hair and a thick moustache, short and stumpy. He smiles wide, nodding as he greets Naz by name. Last name. "Vitale."
Naz doesn't seem fazed when everyone else does it. "Signore Andretti."
That's the extent of what I understand. The men launch into conversation, the words flowing fluently, but every bit of it is foreign to my ears. Italian, I gather, from the smooth tone and romantic sounding enunciations. They're both smiling, the air around them friendly. Naz laughs after a moment as the other man motions toward me. I'm mid-drink, nearly choking on the wine when their attention shifts.
