Page 93 of Vengeful Vows
“Nico’s.”
With a satisfied nod, she selects a bottle that has a comma in the price tag.
“Oh my God,” I protest.
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” she insists with a wicked grin. “If he wasn’t such a world-class”—she leans over and whispers into my ear—“Mafiahole, you wouldn’t be in this predicament, and we wouldn’t be spending his money right now.”
Mafiahole? Like asshole? She’s too, too much, and I can barely refrain from laughing out loud.
Then, she adds hot fudge sundaes to the order.
Within minutes, we’re sitting at a round bistro table with an oversize box filled with pastries, a massive amount of ice cream in tulip-shaped glasses, and one pricey bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket.
“You should take some time off work, enjoy a spa day, get some needed self-care.”
“Absolutely not.” If I did that, I’d spend the day thinking about Nico with his gorgeous, dark eyes, the lovemaking we’d shared, and what might have been. Right now, my job is the only thing saving my world from fracturing.
Amelia moves my sundae in front of me, and I shovel two large spoons of whipping cream into my mouth before I find the first layer of warm, melty chocolate.
“So give me all the details,” she says, picking up her cherry and sucking it into her mouth.
She listens intently as I bring her up to date, leaving nothing out. I tell her about my assertion that Lucia would not have wanted him to avenge her death in that way. And I end with the fact I’d demanded to know if he’d ever be satisfied, and that the only thing I yearned for was to be free.
Which, now that I have the divorce papers, I’m not happy about at all. I should be celebrating instead of dissolving into a constant puddle of emotion.
“The truth is,” Amelia says, “you want the love you deserve.”
“That’s something he’s not capable of.”
By the time my spoon hits the bottom of the sundae bowl, I have a sugar and alcohol buzz that makes me feel worse than ever.
“Let’s go,” Amelia says, standing and scooping up the silver ice bucket. “You grab the desserts.”
“Where are we going?”
“To eat.”
She has to be kidding.
I follow her to the elevator, and we take it to the Uptown’s exclusive steakhouse.
“Who do we have the pleasure of welcoming?” the maître d’ asks, which is his polite way of inquiring as to whether we have reservations.
“Mrs. Nico Moretti,” Amelia answers confidently. “And guest.”
He glances at the map of the restaurant that’s attached to the podium and says, “We’re delighted to have you. Right this way, please.”
Amelia shoots me a grin. “Certain things are worth leaning into.”
Even if I’d stayed married to Nico, I’d never be able to behave that way.
He leads us to a quiet corner, and when our waiter arrives, we order a couple of appetizers.
I’m not sure I can eat anything else, but over a really nice meal, Amelia tells me things I need to hear. That doesn’t mean I like them.
“You need a lawyer. A badass, fancy one.”
“His offer is generous.” More than I would have asked for.