I shoot the ‘subtle’ compliment back at him because I know how powerful those words can be, especially with a certain kind of guy—the kind that doesn’t hear them all that often.
And judging by how standoffish and unapproachable he seems, I seriously doubt he’s the type who gets casually showered with praise. People are probably too scared to cross some invisible line around him, to get all jovial or chummy with a cold-blooded killer.
My well-trained eyes roam over his figure, and the inner stylist in me activates.
Average height, maybe five-nine. Slim build. He probably doesn’t spend his days fending off comparisons to Apollo. That slicked-back hairdo that screams mafioso? Not helping. He’d look way better if he loosened it up a little, styled it in a way that felt more youthful. It would totally work, especially with his regular, symmetrical facial features and a solid hairline. No signs of it receding.
He also has a small metal plate on his temple, some kind of cybernetic implant?
"Sun’s a nickname?"
"Nope. Name. And what’s yours?" I say it on purpose, even though I already know.
Through all of this, Anzo’s black eyes stay locked on me, not letting go for a second.
But did the sound of my name make him shift, just slightly? Like a tiny flicker of something deep in his pupils.
"Wanna sit down?" he asks in a neutral tone.
Carl gapes. Martin’s eyes go wide. Even the guy with the scar raises his eyebrows. But I don’t flinch. I know my game.
"Thanks, but I’m not that kind of boy."
"Oh yeah? What kind are you?"
"We’re leaving, Sun!" Martin growls, grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me away.
I throw Anzo another wink over my shoulder.
"Special," I say. And just like that, we’re gone.
We barely make it back to the table before Martin goes crazy.
His fingers dig into my arm, hard. "Have you fucking lost it, Sun?! These guys are killers! They don’t hesitate. If they want something, they take it. You do not want to be on their radar!"
I roll my eyes and fake a yawn, then drop into my chair. Our food’s already getting cold.
"Geez, you’re so uptight. I was just saying hi. No big deal. Chill out and pull that stick outta your ass."
Martin clenches his jaw like he’s trying to grind his teeth into dust. That sculpted, handsome face of his is practically glowing red with rage and… panic.
"I swear, you’re out of your fucking mind. You don’t mess around with people like that, Sun. They’re real-ass criminals."
Yeah, well, the only person I’ve ever loved was a criminal, so that argument falls pretty flat.
Martin stabs his fork into his steak and starts eating like it personally insulted him. His eyes stay glued to his plate, but mine keep drifting toward the mobsters’ table.
Anzo’s talking to Martin’s uncle, but every now and then, his eyes flick back to me.
Quick glances, but I know what they mean: I’ve caught his attention.
Maybe I’m spoiled by the way men look at me, but it’s not like I ask for it. The attention just shows up. What am I supposed to do, swat it away like snowballs?
But since I hate being unprepared, I set my phone next to my plate and start typing ‘Anzo Ferro’ into Search.
Martin’s throwing daggers at me with his eyes. God, he hates when I look at my phone around him. But I ignore it.
A flood of results comes up, so I scroll through a bunch of articles. Some are legit news outlets, and the first page is full of them. The others, more sketchy little blogs full of gossip and speculation, are buried on the last pages of the search results. But they’re way more interesting.
