The Ricci Heir
Ciara glanced at me, curious, but I only offered my hand as she stepped out of the car.
The restaurant wasn’t flashy — I didn’t need flashy. It was old, warm, candlelit, tucked into a quiet corner of the district my family had protected for generations. The moment we walked in, the owner hurried over, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Don Matteo,” he said with a respectful nod. “Your table is ready.”
Ciara’s eyes widened slightly at the title, but she didn’t pull away from me. If anything, she moved a little closer.
Bab Populer