I stand up. Enzo blinks at me. Bruno looks alarmed.
I rise from my chair, straighten my cuffs, and say, "Excuse me, gentlemen."
Bruno's fork freezes halfway to his mouth. "Where are you going?"
I tap twice on the mahogany table. My bodyguards at the entrance get the message and stay by the door, but I can feel their eyes following me.
"It's her birthday," I say simply. "And she's been left waiting."
Enzo's face hardens into a mix of concern and resignation. "Alessio," he murmurs, "the Stuyvesants have never mixed with our kind. Not in this city's entire history."
I smooth my jacket and smile. "History changes tonight," I tell him, and begin my approach.
The walk to her table is the longest I’ve ever made, and I’ve marched down the aisle of St. Patrick’s with two police captains trying to decide whether to arrest me or genuflect. I keep my head held high, my hands easy but empty—no gifts, not yet.
She notices me from halfway across the room, her gaze meeting mine like silk brushing against rough hands. My jaw tightens and the muscles in my neck tense. I smile just enough to show I mean it, but not enough to show how much I want her.
"May I join you?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave lower than usual.
She studies me, eyes lingering on my shoulders before meeting my gaze. "I'm waiting for someone."
"He's not worth your time," I say, claiming the chair across from her without permission. The wood creaks beneath my weight as I settle in, spreading my knees slightly wider than necessary. She lifts her glass to her lips, the red wine leaving a slick sheen I can almost taste from here.
"That's quite an assumption," she says finally, her throat moving as she swallows.
“I’m good at assumptions,” I reply. “And you’re too beautiful to be kept waiting on your birthday.”
She half-smiles, and it’s the first honest expression she’s given me.
“Do you always approach women like you’re casting them in a movie?”
“No. I only approach women who look like they’ve already walked off the set.”
She laughs, honest and a little rough but not cruel, and suddenly the table between us feels a foot narrower. She glances up, her cheeks already turning pink.
"I don't think I caught your name," she says, voice soft. Her fingers trace the stem of her wine glass, eyes never leaving mine.
I set my glass down. "Alessio Morrone."
She nods, testing the syllables silently on her lips. "You’re very bold, Mr. Morrone. Should I be worried?”
Her innocence is startling. I laugh and lift my glass. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes darting away. "Everyone in this place watches you like you're someone they shouldn't cross." When she looks back, curiosity glimmers in her eyes.
"And here I thought I was being subtle," I say, noting the flush creeping up her neck. "Truth is, you're the one who unnerves me."
Her eyebrow arches. "Me? Why?"
I lean in slightly. "You look like a fantasy come to life," I murmur. "And any man foolish enough to stand you up deserves whatever happens to him. Fortunately for you, handling disappointments is something of a specialty of mine."
She looks down at her clasped hands, then meets my gaze, unguarded for a moment. “I’m not sure if that’s a threat or a pickup line.”
“It can be both.” I smile, and her blush deepens.
Sinatra croons softly in the background as we settle into the restaurant’s hush. There’s comfort in a silence neither of us rushes to fill.
I watch how she holds her wrists, so neat and poised, like a portrait. No nervous fidgeting. She’s clearly never wanted for anything, and yet she yearns for something, and it shows in moments like this.