Sex and the Billionaire Crime Boss - Season 2

Ch. 8: Uneasy

"Good. Please give him my respect," Gino says, and Max nods again.

"I will," Max says.

I have the feeling again that they are speaking in code. There seems to be a subtext to everything, and I'm convinced that something else is going on here beneath the surface.

Not my concern, I tell myself. The only thing I should be focusing on is how to deal with whatever Gino has in mind, and then find a way to keep myself removed from any future dealings.

The next course arrives, and it's a delectable pasta dish.

Max leans close. "Pace yourself. This is not the main course."

I'm thinking s should be. It's some kind of ravioli served with browned butter and freshly grated cheese, and I can't help myself. I close my eyes and give a little sigh as the flavors meld together in my mouth.

Embarrassed, I open my eyes, only to find Gino smiling at me and nodding in approval.

"I enjoy when other appreciate excellent food."

"What is this dish?" I ask, happy to be discing food and not crime.

"Ravioli All Vernantina," he tells me. It oriented in the village where my father was born. I remember my grandmother making it when I was a child."

I take another bite, chewing slowly, then look back at him. "The filling. Potatoes, spinach, and . . . onions?"

"Leeks," he correct me. "With a few other ingredients, but those are the main ones. And just a hint of nutmeg to give that something extra." He kisses his fingers and gestures in such a purely Italian way that again I feel like I've stepped into the set of a movie.

I'm obviously scoring points with Gino for my appreciation of the food. I can only hope that will serve me well in the future as I try to pull back from this sort of command performance. I'm seeing more and more clearly that my future is the law firm my grandfather built. It means far more to me than I'm willing to risk. But I don't yet know how to get out of the situation I've found myself in.

Joey D and Gino are now talking about some event in the news that happened in New Jersey last week. The names aren't familiar to me. Max is interjecting something into their conversation from time to time, and Malcolm tries engaging me in a conversation about a new proposed change to the tax code.

I'm relieved we he abandons that subject - I'm not nearly well enough versed int he tax code to discuss it in any depth - when Gino, now into the third bottle of wine for the table, because telling nostalgic stories about his childhood visits to Italy and the meals prepared by his grandmother. Each new course presented to out table seems to spark another memory.

After both a meat course and a fish course, separated by a small dish of sorbet, we are past what the Italians call the secondi - the main part of the meal - and the waiter is serving the vegetable course. I'm beginning to understand what Max meant when he told me to pace myself.

The rich aroma of the food fills the air and is as intoxicating as the wine, which is flowing freely. Gino keeps topping off my glass, so I'm not sure how much I've actually had to drink. It's important to keep my wits about me. My only hope is that all this rich food is helping absorb the alcohol.

By the time we make it through the salad course and then the fruit and cheese course, I'm thinking I may never eat again.

It's a choice of tiramisu or cannoli for dessert, and I opt to just have a few bites of whatever Max chooses, which turn out to be the cannoli. As the delicate cream melts on my tongue I can't help but think about that famous line from The Godfather movie about when you should bring the guns and when you should bring the cannoli.

Since Gino brought the cannoli, I'm starting to think I can relax until tomorrow. As he said, tonight is for dinner, tomorrow is for business. Until I look up and catch the man I don't know at Gabe's table watching me again. And notice that Gabe, in turn, is watching him. My blood runs a little cold and I shiver.

Max notices and removes his jacket from the back of his chair, putting it around my shoulders. I take a sip of the strong espresso that follows the dessert course, and hope it will help clear my head.

Then Gino calls for a "digestivo," an after-dinner drink high in alcohol which supposedly aids in digestion. The choices are limoncello or grappa, and I choose the former as the safer option. I'm not even sure what grappa is.

But I do know I've definitely had more than enough to drink.

Gino tells me that the limoncello served here comes from the Amalfi coast in Italy and is the highest quality. That I made an excellent choice.

I take a sip from the small cordial glass. It's delicious, but, I suspect, also very potent. Because Gino is watching me, I finish it in a few more sips.

When we leave, Gino invites us to join the others in the limo. And again, an invitation from Gino is apparently something one doesn't refuse, although I'd much rather settle into the back of an Uber, lean my head on Max's shoulder, and fall asleep.

We step into the limo, and Max positions me next to him, with his arm around my shoulders. Our thighs are touching, and I imagine if we were alone in the limo his hand would already be sliding up my bare leg under my skirt and that I'd be on his lap in minutes, straddling him, minus my panties.

Even thinking these thoughts while sitting in a limo full of wiseguys feels so edgy, and I shift in my seat slightly, crossing my leg. Max responds by pulling me closer against him.

I assume we're heading back to our hotel, where Gino is dropping us off. He mentioned over dinner that he's staying in another hotel, not far from ours, that has a Key West resort-style theme. The problem with our world renowned 5 star hotel, he'd explained, is that it lacks a fundamental requirement. A pool. I've never considered a pool to be a common thing to expect at an NYC hotel, although the higher end hotels all have a fitness center and many also boast a spa.

Gino apparently starts every morning with a brisk swim, followed by a sauna. That, he'd explained, is how he can afford to eat the rich Italian food he loves so well. Given Gino's stout build and ruddy complexion, if he eats and drinks like this all the time I'm not sure the morning swim will be enough to stave off high blood pressure and a potential heart attack.

Right now, I just want to get back to our suite away from Gino and Joey D and the rest of these men so I can stop trying to watch every word I say and relax.

Although thinking about being alone with Max in the bedroom of the luxurious suite brings another other level of anxiety into my alcohol muddled brain.

I really want to sleep with him.

Sleeping with him is a really bad idea.

I haven't been paying much attention to the direction the limo is traveling, until I hear Max's voice, calm on the surface but with an underlying tone I'm probably the only one who picks up on.

"Gino, that's the Brooklyn Bridge. Where the hell are we going?"