I blinked. “Who did that?”
“Alphonse.”
“Ah.” I grinned, thinking of Tony’s second, a seven-foot hunk of muscle who was great with the guns and the knives and the things that went boom. Not so much with the dainty table manners. “What was my father like?”
Mircea thought about it for a moment. “Somewhat reserved, as might have been expected. But articulate, wellread, even amusing at times. I tried to steal him away from Antonio, but he said he liked the good air in New Jersey!”
I nodded. Tony had business interests in Jersey. My father must have worked in some of them. “He was probably afraid you’d do a background check.”
“Probably. I have employed mages on a number of occasions who were at odds with the Silver Circle, whose punishments are often out of proportion to the crime. But the Black . . . no. I do not deal with them.”
I drank wine and didn’t comment. I didn’t want to think about what my father might have done as a member of the world’s most organized bunch of evil mages. I didn’t know why I was curious about the damn man at all. Maybe just because, while I knew a little about my mother, he was almost a total blank.
For years, all I’d known was that he’d been Tony’s “favorite human” until he refused to hand me over. Tony had been so incensed by this “betrayal,” as he saw it, that killing him hadn’t been enough. He’d had a mage construct a trap for my father’s soul, capturing it at the point of death. Tony had used it for years afterward as a paperweight—and as a subtle reminder to anyone else who thought about crossing him.
But as far as memories went, I had almost nothing—just the vague impression of a pair of strong arms tossing me into the air as a child. I couldn’t even picture him in my head. “What did he look like?” I asked, pushing a fry around because I was too stuffed to do anything else with it.
“It is odd, now that you mention it,” Mircea said.
“What is?”
“He was slightly swarthy, handsome enough, with dark hair and eyes.”
“Why is that odd?”
He shrugged. “Merely that, having seen your mother, I would have expected him to have been a blond.”
Chapter Fifteen
I gave up pretending to eat a few minutes later. There was a cart with dessert—chocolate hazelnut sponge cake, crème brûlée and pavlova with raspberries and kiwi. But by the time I finished the ribs and the fries and most of a bottle of wine, I couldn’t walk that far. I kind of doubted I could walk at all. I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling, lost in a food haze.
It was glorious.
Mircea leaned over to refill my wineglass, and a section of his bare chest showed under the robe, along with a hint of a dusky nipple. It’s a good thing I’m too stuffed to move, I thought hazily. I would so have jumped that.
He laughed, and I looked up and met amused, dark eyes. “What?”
He started to say something and then stopped himself. “You have sauce everywhere,” he said instead.
“Of course I do. I had ribs.”
“And apparently enjoyed them.”
I sighed. “They were really, really good.”
He reached over, picked up my hand. And before I could ask what he was doing, a pink tongue flicked out and—
And he licked my fingers clean.
“You’re right,” he told me. “It’s delicious.”
“Don’t do that,” I said, as he nipped the mound below my thumb.
“Why not?”
“Because it feels too good.”
Mircea just smiled. And then he did it again.