Page 29 of Vengeful Vows

Sergio arrives to accompany us downstairs.

This time, I’m more prepared for the speed of the elevator, though I’m still a little lightheaded when we step out of the compartment.

As we follow the hand-lettered signs to the Rose Martini Bar, I take in the exquisite murals on the walls, each brushstroke a work of art. Overhead, enormous chandeliers cascade, their crystals shimmering. Every detail whispers of sophistication, subtle and understated.

We reach our destination, and there’s a massive line in front of the podium, but we are immediately waved past by a man in a tuxedo and shown to a table for two.

“Impressive,” I tell Marse as he holds my chair for me.

“I asked Sir Percival to let the hotel know we were on our way.”

“How do I get a Sir Percival of my own?”

“Move in with me.”

My heart stops.

Slowly I tip my head back to meet his gaze. This morning, he said he doesn’t joke, and there’s no hint of a tease in his eyes. “This is sudden.”

“Is it?” he asks unconcerned.

The man in the tux leaves menus on the table and walks away.

Marse goes on. “Or is it merely the next inevitable step that there’s no sense denying?”

“Marcello…”

After brushing my lips with his, he takes a seat across from me. “You can protest, Bella, but you know as well as I do that this is right. Tell me you feel it.”

After exhaling a shaky breath, I’m as honest as I’ve ever been. “You do something extraordinary to me, Marse.”

“Love at first sight?” he suggests.

“I don’t believe in that.” Maybe I had once, with Brad. But the experience taught me a harsh lesson. “Do you?”

“I didn’t.” He pauses. “Until I saw you.”

Breath constricts in my throat.

Thankfully a server comes over.

I’m flustered enough that I don’t even look at the menu. Instead I ask if they have a chocolate martini.

“Death by Chocolatini,” she says. “It’s a house specialty, and my absolute fave, but only if you like the inside of the glass swirled with two different types of chocolate, and one of the biggest chunks of Belgian chocolate dropped into the bottom of the glass.”

“That sounds as if it’s a full day’s worth of calories all by itself,” I protest.

“No doubt.” Her eyes twinkle. “But if you’re looking for something truly decadent, then it has to be the Italian Wedding Cake.”

“She’ll have that,” Marse inserts.

“Oh?” the server asks, glancing at me with wide eyes.

“No! I won’t. I’m going for the chocolate.”

“Coward,” he teases.

Every moment, he confounds me more.