CHAPTER ONE
ALESSIO
Romance is wasted on the young, I’ve decided. They have no patience for it, just hunger, and my own appetite is so big that I spend half the dinner watching my son, Bruno, pick at hisbranzinolike he's afraid to bruise it. A man should devour what's in front of him. Take it whole. Instead, he flicks the skin with his fork, hesitating where I would go all in. The boy needs to learn that you don't just eat a meal; you take charge of it.
Basilio’s is a place of velvet and shadow, an old spot in Midtown where the chairs are still as hard as tombstones and the air is thick with garlic. I’ve known Basilio, the owner, since he was a line cook in his uncle’s Brooklyn place, back when my father once threw a chair at a police captain for coughing during prayers. Back then, everything ran on fear and olive oil. Now it’s hush money and truffle risotto, and the only thing left to fear is boredom.
Enzo, my consigliere and cousin, is already two glasses of Barolo deep and talking out the side of his mouth like the city’s fate is being decided from our white linen tablecloth. “I’m telling you, Ale, the Russians in Brighton are playing a long game. That’s what they do. We push on Fulton, they lay low, but come winter, they’ll have a new place uptown, guaranteed.”
Bruno looks up—my son has the face of an actor, all delicate bone and huge brown eyes, but none of the discipline. He’s allergic to risk, sugar, and ambition. How the fuck did I get a child who wants to be an architect? “Can I say something?” he ventures, not waiting for permission. “If they’re already planning a move on Fifth, can’t we just let them? Then we squeeze them from two sides, so?—?”
“Stop,” I say, and not kindly. “You’re not here for war games, Bruno. You’re here to eat.”
He puts his fork down. The sight annoys me more than I let on.
Enzo ignores the moment, which is his real genius. “Your wife called me again,” he says, and by ‘your wife,’ he means Theresa, who has been my ex-wife for six years, but still calls Enzo once a week to remind us she exists on a higher plane. “She wants you to wire the money for April early. Says her Milan apartment is leaking.”
“She can wait,” I say. “She’s waited before.”
Enzo shrugs. “You know she’s going to call you.”
“She can call,” I say, and mean it the way I always do: she can call, but I will not answer. Eventually, I’ll fulfill whatever requests she makes, and she’ll eventually find something else to complain about.
This is my family now: a son who refuses to fit in, a daughter who used to be an angel but now loves to get under my skin, a cousin who nags me about every mistake, and an ex-wife I pay off like a mortgage. My legacy is built on the bones of better men and better days.
I refill my glass, and I’m about to lecture Bruno on the value of loyalty—when an angel appears.
She sits alone at a table by the window. She has her back to the room but her face to the light, as if she owns everything around her. Her tight, silk dress complements her figureperfectly. Old-world curves, the kind they used to carve out of marble before people decided the only thing worth worshipping was Instagram. I watch her for a full minute before she notices, and when those eyes meet mine—blue, cold, then suddenly, unexpectedly, warm.
“Who’s the girl?” I say to Enzo, nodding with my chin. I’m careful, as always, to sound disinterested. The men around me can sniff the difference between interest and obsession, and I don’t need anyone using my weaknesses against me.
Enzo glances over, takes a second longer than he should. “Dunno,” he says, but I can see the wheels turning. He’s got a mind like a Rolodex and never forgets a face, especially a beautiful one. “You want me to ask?”
“Ask Basilio. Quietly,” I say.
While Enzo does what he does best, slipping away and coming back with answers, I try to ignore how the room seems to lean toward the girl, like she’s a ship and everyone else is just floating around her. She checks her phone, lifts her fork, then sets it down. She has a patience that looks learned, not given. No ring on her finger and no man with her. She could be anyone, but she’s not.
Bruno follows my gaze and says, “She looks familiar.”
“She looks like every woman you ever thought about and never got the nerve to touch,” I say, but more to myself than to him.
Enzo returns, his face bright with the satisfaction of a man who's just discovered a secret worth knowing. "Her name's Lucinda Stuyvesant," he says under his breath. "John Stuyvesant's daughter. You know—that prick who acts like his family built Manhattan with their bare hands."
“Stuyvesant?” I nearly choke on my wine. “That skinny bastard from Gansevoort Park?” I remember the father. Couldn’t hold his vodka and couldn’t keep his hands clean,always trying to use my father’s money to fund his shady investments. Fortunately, the old man always saw right through him.
Enzo nods. “That’s the one. Basilio says she’s been coming in here every Wednesday for a month. Always alone. Usually reads a book, but tonight?—”
“She’s waiting for someone,” I finish for him.
“Basilio says it’s her twenty-fifth birthday and she told the host someone named Paul was meeting her.” Enzo shrugs.
Across the room, Lucinda Stuyvesant checks her phone again. Light catches the sharp angle of her profile, as if she’s been carved by Michelangelo himself—pure grace and perfection. Her mouth is the color of communion wine, sacred and intoxicating. When she smiles at the waiter, the whole restaurant seems to brighten, like she’s given a blessing that costs her nothing but changes everything it touches.
My God, she’s too beautiful for words.
In another life, I would have gone after her without hesitation. I might have sent her favorite dessert with a note promising to taste it off her skin later, or slipped a hotel key in her coat pocket with the room number circled in red. Maybe I would have cornered her in the bathroom and pressed her against the marble until she felt every intention I had. Tonight, I just sit here, biting the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, imagining her thighs around my face.
Then, like a lightning bolt, a plan hits me—quick and sharp as a knife.