Chapter 88: But...
Making his way into the restaurant’s kitchen, Silas looked around for the waiter from earlier but couldn’t find him anywhere.
"Hi, how can I help you?" A chef asked, noticing Silas lingering at the entrance.
"I am looking for one of your waiters. Handsome guy, sharp jawline, neat stubble. His eyes were dark, maybe brown, and he had this easy smile. Do you know who I mean?" Silas described, and the chef’s expression showed he knew exactly who Silas was talking about.
"Oh, that’s Luca. Can I know his offense? I am the manager as well as a chef here. You can tell me your grievances," the man said firmly.
"No. I would like to compensate him for a job well done. He has no offense," Silas lied smoothly.
"Oh. I sent him to the store. If you tell me where you are seated, I will bring him to you," the manager offered.
"No, that won’t be necessary. I will handle it myself," Silas replied, his eyes sweeping the kitchen until they landed on a door at the far end, likely the store. Without waiting, he started toward it, the manager calling after him, worry etched on his face.
"What does he want?" Another cook asked, watching Silas disappear through the kitchen.
"He says he wants to compensate Luca, but I have a bad feeling it’s not about compensation. He looked like he was going to confront him instead," the manager muttered, rubbing his jaw as he stared after Silas suspiciously.
"Then stop him," the cook suggested.
The manager turned and gave him a look of pure disgust. Smacking him across the head, he clicked his tongue. "Che stupido!"
"Does he look like an average person to you? I wonder who even hired you," the manager said coldly, shaking his head before walking away.
Rubbing the back of his head, the cook finally understood why he had been hit and sighed. Despite working in the biggest Italian restaurant in the city, they still had people to fear. If even the manager was that cautious about offending a higher-up, how much more should ordinary cooks like him be?
—
Their order was brought minutes later, Silas still absent.
"Where could he be?" Zara asked, glancing toward the path he had taken when leaving.
"He should be here any moment," Roman replied, making Zara wonder how he knew. Had Roman sent him on an errand?
Sure enough, just seconds later, Silas returned, and Zara was impressed.
They ate in silence until the meal was over. Zara excused herself, scanning the restaurant for the waiter from earlier. When she didn’t see him anywhere, annoyance twisted in her chest. She was about to head toward the kitchen when a voice, low and unmistakable, slid across her skin.
"Looking for your new friend? Or should I say... your new bed partner?" Silas’s voice.
She turned slowly, arms folding across her chest, gaze sharp. "Why does it matter to you? We don’t interfere in who we fuck, remember?" Her tone dripped with indifference.
"You think?" His reply was low, dangerous, like a warning wrapped in temptation. Zara frowned, unsettled by the sudden shift, and her arms fell to her sides, body tense as he closed the distance.
In a breath, his hand was on her throat, firm but not crushing, tilting her head back as his mouth crashed against hers. The kiss wasn’t a request, it was a theft. She thrashed, pushing against his chest, but his free hand slid down her spine and anchored her against him, erasing the space between them.
"Mmmph!" Her muffled cries only spurred him on. His mouth was unrelenting, devouring her like he owned every inch of her lips.
Her resistance only seemed to provoke him further. His hand gripped her ass roughly, and against her will, a moan slipped free. Heat flared through her veins. She hated it, hated how her body betrayed her, melting beneath his touch. But the hunger she had buried deep clawed its way back, overtaking reason. She wanted this. She wanted him.
He lifted her effortlessly, her legs locking around his waist as though they belonged there. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, urging the kiss deeper. The fight was gone. She surrendered because she loved the way he took without asking, loved the way his aggression set fire to every nerve in her body.
His hand slid to her waistband, teasing the zipper down, but footsteps nearby made him pause. Their mouths tore apart, both gasping for air, foreheads pressed together. His gaze darted, sharp and predatory, until it landed on the men’s restroom.
Without hesitation, he carried her there, disappearing through the door.
Meanwhile, back at the table, Patricia’s eyes kept drifting to the entrance. Zara had been gone too long. Her gut twisted with suspicion. She had a good idea of what her friend might be doing, but no, she wouldn’t dare here. Not in public. Not like this. Her gaze slid to Silas’s empty chair, and her stomach tightened. She shook her head quickly, refusing to let her imagination run wild. Zara might be wild, but surely there were limits. Hopefully.
"Let’s go," Roman’s voice cut through her thoughts.
Her head snapped toward him, brows raised. "Are you... talking to me?"
"Yes. You." He rose from his seat, towering, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
"I can’t leave without Zara. And I already have Kay. You don’t need to worry about me," she shot back, forcing her gaze away from him and back to the entrance.
"I am not giving you a choice this time." His words dropped like steel, final and unyielding.
Before she could react, his hand clamped around her wrist and yanked her up from the chair. She gasped, stumbling, but he didn’t slow as his other arm swept under her legs, lifting her into his arms in a swift, possessive motion. Bridal style, but nothing romantic. It was a claim.
"I said no!" Patricia thrashed, fists pressing against his chest, her voice trembling with fury and panic.
"What about me?" Violet’s small voice broke in, her wide eyes flicking between them.
Patricia froze for a second, torn, her breath catching as she looked at Violet.
Roman’s gaze never wavered. "Wait for them. Or go with Kay." His voice was ice cold, and dismissive. He didn’t even glance back as he strode off with Patricia still in his arms.
"But..." Violet’s protest died in her throat when she realized resistance was pointless. She sank back into her chair, watching Roman carry Patricia away like she weighed nothing. Seems like she was right.