His Mafia Queen

Possession

RILEY

The restaurant is on the bottom floor of a Miami boutique hotel, and I feel like I've been transported to another world when we walk in.

"Do you like it?" Gabriel murmurs into my ear as we step inside.

"It's..."

Unbelievably stunning.

The restaurant is in the open-air courtyard that's surrounded by the Mediterranean building on four sides. The warm spring breeze hits my bare arms and I shiver, from the ambience and the rarified air — and Gabriel's touch. His fingers trail down my exposed skin, and I was glad I'd picked the backless dress that allowed easy access to his hands.

The host leads us to our table, and we wind our way through the room, which is packed with beautiful humans. Like supermodel gorgeous. Normally I'm a confident woman, but being in this crowd is more than a bit intimidating. Still, I notice that some people's eyes shift to Gabriel as we make our way through, one of his bodyguards close at hand.

Apparently Gabriel comes to Miami often for business. It's a four-hour drive from Tampa, but only a thirty minute flight. He's here so often that he has a dedicated security team that lives here, a fact that kind of blows my mind.

Once we're seated, with the bodyguard a few feet away at a different table, I allow myself to fully gape at the surroundings.

The entire courtyard is covered by a wooden pergola, and it appears that the tables and chairs were arranged around actual trees with verdant leaves. Hundreds of tiny bell jar lights hang from the branches, casting a magical glow around the romantic space.

"There's something to focus on everywhere I look," I tell Gabriel, feeling a little giddy. "See the floor? The green tiles there are different from near the bar. And look at the tiles behind the bar. What are those? Spanish? Italian?"

"Probably Italian, since that's what kind of food they serve."

I'm now babbling about the tile selection here like I'm on one of those home renovation TV shows that I watch when I'm bored. I've never seen anything like this in real life, though.

"And, oh my God, Gabriel, would you look at that sofa? Do you know what that kind of sofa's called? The one to your left. The white one."

Smiling, he turns to stare at a long, white tufted sofa that doubles as restaurant seating. There are two tables pushed near it. "I'm not up on my sofa designs."

"It's called a Chesterfield. Do you see how the rolled arms are the same height as the back? They're often in leather, like that one, and are always tufted."

He turns back to face me. "I didn't realize you had such an interest in interior design."

I open my menu. "All of my knowledge comes from that TV show, Champagne Taste on a Beer Budget. I'm sure you haven't seen it. It's not your kind of thing. But I love it."

"I'll have to check it out."

I laugh, imagining Gabriel watching a program about turning discarded furniture into swank décor. My stomach is still jumpy from our conversation on the plane, but I'm trying hard to relax into the moment. It's difficult, though, because every moment with Gabriel seems like I'm jumping off a cliff and plunging headfirst into a mysterious, unknown territory.

The waiter, a guy about my age wearing a white shirt and black pants, comes to our table. He looks like a Labrador retriever come to life, a cute guy with dark hair and blue eyes, seemingly eager to please. Gabriel orders wine and a charcuterie plate for us to share.