Fall For My Ex’s Mafia Dad
Chapter 119

Jerome is actually a big help, prepping the gorgeous green dress and shoes that were left on my bed for me, and then picking out some jewelry to match, as I apply my makeup as fast as I can and quickly unbraid my hair and pin it on top of my head. We manage, somehow, to get me fully ready in under five minutes.

"Wow," I say, as I push an earing through my lobe and simultaneously slide my foot into the shoe that Jerome, kneeling on the floor, holds steady for me. "If you ever decide to quit being a low-level mafia lackey, you certainly have a career as like, one of those people who helps people get changed fast between scenes in a play -"

"I know," Jerome says, smirking at me as he stands up. "I grew up helping the ladies at my mom's strip club make quick changes between their acts." "Really?" I ask, my eyes going wide.

"A story for another time, Fay!" Jerome laughs, putting a warm hand on my shoulder and pushing me gently towards the door, grabbing my little purse off the bed and shoving it into my hand. As I move towards the top of the stairs though, Jerome makes to disappear in the other direction down the hall.

"Where -" I start to ask, but he just shakes his head at me.

"Fay," he whispers. "You just brought me into your bedroom. And got changed. And only one of those people down there knows that I'm not into this -" he says, waving a hand up and down in my direction to encapsulate my whole being. "So, yeah. I'm disappearing." I go a little pale as I realize what he's saying and I grimace, realizing that I have to come up with some clever explanations later. But I take a deep breath, steeling myself and trying to be as cool and nonchalant as I can as I start down the steps. "So sorry," I call to the group still waiting below. "Shall we go? I would hate to miss the reservation."

Daniel grins at me again, laughing a little, while Natalia glares. When I reach the bottom of the stairs my fiancé offers me his arm and then, as a group, we set off.

Honestly, I don't know why everyone was all upset. It's not as if the restaurant gave away our table. Instead, the hostess beams at us and sweeps us through the restaurant to a semi-private balcony up a small flight of stairs that overlooks the rest of the restaurant. It's the perfect spot - close enough to participate in the chic, busy ambiance of the place but separate enough from it to not be overheard in private conversation.

Our table is small and round, intimately sized for the five of us so that when Daniel seats himself next to me I find that our knees touch under the table. We're all pressed close, family-style, so that we could whisper across the table if we wanted and all still be included in the conversation.

As we sit I wonder, for the first time actually, what the hell we're all doing here at this fancy dinner dressed in evening gowns and tuxedos. A little knot of anxiety forms in the pit of me as I look around at Daniel on my left, Kent pressed close on my right, and then Natalia, and then Alessi in the final seat between Daniel and Natalia.

Who called this dinner? And what do they have planned?

Unfortunately, no one fills me in, and so I merely go along with it, letting everyone else steer the conversation and listening carefully, hoping to figure it out as we go.

The food, predictably, is delicious. I figure out quickly that this is a French restaurant that hosts one seating a night, suggesting that we'll be having the kind of long, wine-soaked, sumptuous dinner that I'd usually be thrilled to experience. As our first course is served, I'm interested to see that Natalia steers the conversation towards memories.

"Kent," she says, turning her beautiful face towards him as she spreads pate de foie gras on a piece of baguette, "do you remember that summer that you, and I, and Lenai skipped church and took the train to France, and didn't tell anyone, and were away for days? God, we were such children then - what were we, sixteen?"

I watch Kent carefully as he smiles at the memory and then adds pieces of his own, making Natalia laugh- perhaps a little too hard - when he reminds her that that was the first time he ever had fois gras, and how much he hated it. The conversation passes mostly like this, with Natalia and Kent and Alessi trading fond memories of their youth, sometimes slipping into Italian to better express their meaning.

And as I look around at the table, watching Daniel laugh along with them in the moments when I cannot understand the words, and catching Natalia watching me when she thinks I'm not looking, I realize that...this dinner could very well be about me. About making it quite clear to me precisely how much I do not fit in this family - the little American girl who has never been to Italy or France, who cannot understand Italian, or cook, and who certainly has never had fois gras.

And who does not like it when I try it tonight.

As I push my little plate away, a single bite taken out of my pate-and-baguette, I lean over to Daniel to whisper in his ear.

"Daniel, who organized this dinner?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"Natalia," he replies, leaning close to tell me in my ear. "A surprise. The chef is an old friend, apparently - she organized it this afternoon."

Nodding, smiling at him to let him know that all is well, I turn back to the table better prepared to go to war. Because I'm figuring out that that's precisely what this is.

War.

But Natalia surprises me by ignoring me further, chatting lightly mostly to Kent throughout the next two courses, keeping up such a steady stream of conversation at the small table that the rest of us don't really have a chance to change the subject. I do note, as well, that our glasses are liberally resupplied with wine, and that Natalia never finishes hers (so I don't either), though each of the men do.

I watch Natalia quite, quite closely as she pretends to ignore me, so I notice the precise moment when she makes her move. It happens just after the meat course is served - a gorgeous roasted game hen for each of us - and each of us are provided with our fifth glass of wine, which I'm curious to see Kent lift to his lips, having fallen under her nostalgic spell more than I thought him capable of doing.

"Kent," Natalia says, a fond smile on her face, her eyes sparkling curiously, "when do you think it is that you will take a second wife? It is long past time, no?"

Kent goes still for a second, just a second, and I feel Daniel perk up next to me curiously. But I watch, fascinated, realizing that Natalia has bided her time so precisely that neither Kent nor Daniel bristle at her, which I know they usually would at anyone who dared ask Kent about his romantic intentions at any other time.

Masterful, I think, leaning my elbow on the table and resting my chin on my hand, flicking my eyes to Kent, curious to see what will happen next.

"Don't be ridiculous, Natalia," he laughs - laughs, I think, well done Natalia. "That can't possibly be on my mind now. I'm too busy."

"Ohhh," she replies, and I feel my spine stiffen a little as I watch Natalia lean closer to Kent, reaching her hand up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "But that is precisely what a wife can do for you, no? Take some of the pressure off so that you can concentrate on what really matters?"

And I'm glad I have my chin in my hand at that moment because, honestly, if it weren't, I'd be at deep risk of my mouth falling open. Because I realize quite suddenly that I was wrong: this dinner isn't about Natalia making a move against me. She's making a move for Kent.