Chapter 113: Chapter 113
Amara blinked, looking around, her lashes flickering like she was trying to confirm she wasn’t dreaming.
The scent of roasted garlic, simmering tomatoes, and herbs heavy with olive oil wrapped around her like an old memory she didn’t own.
"You brought me to an Italian restaurant?" she asked, her voice caught somewhere between surprise and suspicion.
Elias didn’t flinch.
He leaned his back against the polished wooden door he had just closed behind them. His fingers tapped once against the brass handle as if sealing their entry.
The golden lighting overhead softened the sharpness of his jaw, but it did nothing to dull the intensity in his eyes.
"I realised," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "you don’t know a lot about me." He took a soft pause, like a hunter measuring his distance before taking the shot. "So I properly want to tell you that I’m Italian."
Amara tilted her head, her brows lifting, with the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. "You want to tell me about your Italian roots now?"
Elias gave a small, almost self-deprecating laugh, but his shoulders stayed square. His posture careful. "Now feels like the right time."
The restaurant wasn’t crowded, but the few couples scattered around gave the air of intimacy. It all pressed Amara to a corner of unease she couldn’t quite name.
She crossed her arms, "You say that like you just remembered you’re Italian." She raised a brow, her British accent just enough to let him know they had different roots.
That hit closer than she knew.
Elias’s jaw ticked before he forced it into a smile. "Not remembered," he corrected, guiding her gently toward the host’s podium. "Just... decided it was time you heard it from me, instead of catching bits of it."
Amara froze in her step, her hand brushing against the edge of his sleeve as if grounding herself. "So you did realise you slipped."
The words landed heavier than she intended. Elias stilled for a fraction, then angled his head. His lips curved without warmth. "I realised you notice everything."
And that was his reminder. She was not the kind of woman you underestimated. He should be careful.
The host appeared, smiling, and Elias switched smoothly into Italian, his voice lowering but fluent. He kept on rolling the words in a way that made Amara’s heart skip. She had heard him speak it once before. It was accidental, raw, and during the chaos. But here, in the quiet, it sounded deliberate. Sensual. Dangerous.
The host guided them toward a corner booth, half-hidden by a tall rack of wine bottles. Elias motioned for her to slide in first. She hesitated, eyes flicking up at him, then slipped into the seat. He joined her across the table, his frame commanding even when seated.
Amara set her hands on the linen, her fingers tracing the edge absentmindedly. "You didn’t answer me," she said, her tone sharper now. "Why here, Elias?"
He leaned back, the candlelight catching in his eyes. "Because food tells stories words can’t. If I tell you I’m Italian, it might sound like a detail. But if you taste it with me, smell it, and see it. Then maybe it won’t feel like a detail. It will feel like truth."
Amara blinked. She tried to catch a moment. Damn him. He had a way of weaving sentences like silk into her. Soft, but binding.
She lifted her chin. "Truth is a funny word, coming from you."
He didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his gaze. He leaned forward, with his elbows on the table, as his voice dropped low. "Amara. Do you think I saved you the other night because it was convenient?" he needed to know what she thinks of that night.
Her throat tightened. The memory flashed in her head again, remembring how his hands pulled her out of danger. She remembered how his voice sharp, spoke in a language she didn’t understand. She hated that part of her believed him.
"I don’t know why you do what you do," she admitted finally, her voice softer. "But you confuse me, Elias. And I don’t like being confused."
His lips curved, not mocking but strangely tender. "Then let me un-confuse you."
He reached for the menu and slid it toward her. "Choose. Anything. Let me show you my world for an evening."
Amara stared at the menu, but her focus kept drifting back to him. His hands were veined, steady, and capable of both violence and gentleness. His eyes were watchful, like he was guarding secrets she had no map to.
She shook herself, flipping the page. "Fine. But don’t think this means you’re off the hook. I still want answers."
"And you’ll get them," Elias murmured.
When the waiter came, Elias ordered effortlessly in Italian. Amara felt it in her skin. His confidence, the fluidity, and the way the language sat on his tongue like a second home. The waiter glanced at her, smiling, as if she was lucky to be in the presence of such charm.
Lucky? She wasn’t so sure.
When the waiter left, Amara leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "So what else do I not know about you? You going to tell me you own this place too?"
Elias chuckled, the sound low. "No. Just that I know the chef. Old friend."
"You have old friends? Shocking."
He smirked. "Believe it or not, I wasn’t born fully grown with a bad reputation."
Amara tilted her head, lips twitching. "Could’ve fooled me."
Elias laughed, genuinely. It cracked something open in her chest, something she hated admitting. She loved hearing him laugh.
The food arrived. It was steaming plates of pasta, fresh bread, and rich sauces that filled the air. Amara inhaled, her stomach betraying her with a growl. Elias raised a brow, smirking.
"Starving?"
"Don’t start," she muttered, but her cheeks warmed.
He picked up his fork, twirling pasta with practiced ease. "Eat. Then we’ll talk."
Amara hesitated, then dug in. The first bite was overwhelming. The richness, the depth of the flavor, and the way it melted into her mouth was comfort disguised as luxury. She closed her eyes briefly, savoring it.
She had never been to an Italian restaurant before. This was her first, and it was already memorable.
When she opened them, Elias was watching her. He was watching her too closely.
"What?" she demanded.
He tilted his head. "You’re beautiful when you’re not guarded."
Her fork clattered slightly against the plate. "Don’t."
"Don’t what?"
"Don’t say things like that."
"Why not?"
She eyed him. "Because it feels like you mean them."
His gaze didn’t waver. "What if I do?"
The words hung between them, heavier than the candle smoke curling upward.