Chapter 65 Sweet as Poison
Valentina
Something was off.
I couldn’t put my finger on it—not exactly—but the moment we stepped through the restaurant doors, something shifted in the air. Matteo was standing beside me, hand still resting possessively at the small of my back, but my focus drifted elsewhere.
That scent.
Sweet. Cloying. Like sugared roses drowning in syrup. It hit my nose the second we walked in, familiar enough to snag my attention, but slippery enough to evade memory.
“You good?” Matteo murmured beside me, his eyes scanning my face.
I blinked and nodded. “Yeah. I think so. It’s just… there’s this perfume. It smells really familiar, but I can’t figure out where I’ve smelled it before.”
He gave a low chuckle. “Ah, the worst kind of itch—you can’t scratch it and you can’t ignore it.”
“I don’t smell anything but lasagna,” Rosco chimed in behind us. “And now my stomach’s screaming bloody murder.”
The hostess smiled politely and led us toward a corner table with a view of the patio. “Your server will be right with you,” she said before disappearing.
I sat down across from Matteo, still distracted, still hunting the source of that perfume in my mind. It coated the back of my throat like over-sweetened tea.
“Hi, my name is Mar—” The voice faltered.
All three of us looked up at the same time.
Well. Shit.
Maria stood over our table, wearing a server’s apron and a mask of shock that cracked into barely contained rage. Her eyes bounced between us like she couldn’t decide who she wanted to strangle first.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she hissed.
Matteo didn’t even blink. “My wife said she was hungry. I took her to lunch.”
Maria scoffed. “Right. And you just happened to walk into the restaurant I work at? And just happened to land at my table?”
Rosco leaned back lazily. “Yeah. That’s exactly what happened.”
“Shut up, Rosco.”
He grinned. “Damn. You’re a real bitch when you don’t have a dick in your mouth or up your ass. Want me to fix that? I’m a generous guy.”
I lifted my menu to hide the smirk tugging at my lips.
“Rosco, that’s enough,” Matteo muttered, but even he sounded amused.
Turning back to Maria, he was cool and composed. “As Rosco said, it’s purely a coincidence. I didn’t know you had a second job. If it’s a problem, we can request another server.”
I tilted my head, all sweet innocence. “But that would mean you’d miss out on the tip, wouldn’t it?”
Maria’s eyes narrowed into slits. She spun on her heel and stormed off without a word.
“So… does that mean she’s getting us a new server or what?” I asked dryly, lowering my menu.
Matteo leaned back in his chair, his hand brushing mine under the table. “I have no idea,” he said. “But I’ve got a bad fucking feeling about this whole thing.”
Maria returned fifteen minutes later, two waters in hand and a sour expression she didn’t even bother to mask.
She dropped the glasses onto the table with a wet clunk. “What do you want?” she snapped, pen poised over her little notepad like she was doing us a goddamn favor.
Matteo didn’t even blink. “I’ll have the ribeye, medium rare. Whatever red blend you recommend, bring that too.”
I folded my menu slowly, not letting her attitude get under my skin. “Lasagna for me. And a side salad, vinaigrette on the side. No onions.”
Maria didn’t write a damn thing down. She just turned and stalked off like we were invisible. Not one “thank you,” not one fake smile. Just a storm cloud in an apron, brewing something dark.
“Should’ve ordered her a muzzle,” Rosco muttered under his breath, sipping his water.
Fifteen minutes later, she reappeared, balancing our plates with exaggerated care and that cloying perfume still clouding the air.
She set down our food without a word.
Then, just as she turned to leave, she gave a dramatic little jump, stumbled, and yelped.
“Oh my God!” she shouted, spinning back toward our table. “Did you just grab my ass?!”
Everything around us seemed to freeze. Forks paused mid-air. Conversations died. Several nearby guests turned toward our table, eyes wide.
Maria clutched her tray like she’d just been assaulted in front of a live studio audience. “Seriously, Matteo? You think just because I used to work for you, you can put your hands on me in public?”
Matteo’s brows lifted, calm and calculating. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”
She pointed at him with a shaking hand, loud enough to draw the attention of a manager across the dining room. “You touched me! Right here, in front of everyone!”
“You’re out of your damn mind,” Rosco muttered. “He didn’t even move.”
Maria spun on him. “Oh, and you’re going to lie for him now?”
I leaned back in my chair, gaze cool as a glacier. I didn’t need to say it yet—but this wasn’t over.
Matteo’s knuckles flexed against the edge of the table, his jaw ticking as the restaurant’s manager approached, expression grim.
The stage was set. And Maria? She’d just made herself a very dangerous problem.
The restaurant manager finally made his way to our table, posture stiff and eyes flicking between Maria’s flared nostrils and Matteo’s unbothered expression.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked, tone trying—and failing—to stay neutral.
Matteo didn’t stand. He didn’t need to. His presence alone had the weight of a man who didn’t flinch under pressure. “No problem,” he said calmly. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Maria scoffed. “Misunderstanding? You grabbed me!”
Matteo glanced up at the manager, completely unfazed. “She used to work for me. I let her go this morning—very generously, I might add—and it seems she’s having a difficult time accepting that. My guess is she’s trying to retaliate. Publicly.”
The manager’s gaze flicked between them. “Maria… is this true?”
She flinched. “Of course not! I mean it is true that I did work for him, but grabbing me is something he’s used to doing.” She paused for a breath then added, “he would touch me all the time when I worked for him.”
I heard gasps from eavesdropping people at nearby tables.