She glances at her watch, then back at me through lowered lashes. "Forty-five minutes," she says, tucking a dark strand behind her ear. "I promised myself one hour of waiting, not a minute more. After that, I'd... go home, open a bottle of wine and binge a new series.”
I nod. “Let me handle him. No one should keep you waiting.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
“In my line of work,” I say, “I’ve dealt with plenty of no-shows. Consider him warned. If he shows up late tonight, I’ll make sure he regrets it.”
She gives me a softer smile, a little rueful. “That’s… comforting, actually.”
“And effective,” I add.
She’s funny without trying, daring in small ways. I picture taking her home, watching her blow out candles on a cake I’d have ready. Her hair would spill across my pillows, black against white sheets. Champagne at 3 AM. Her laughter would echo through my penthouse as dawn breaks, her body still warm against mine after a night that would make her forget any man who ever let her down.
“I’m sorry your date stood you up,” I say softly. I mean it.
She folds her napkin with careful fingers. “I’m not sorry. I should have left after fifteen minutes. I didn’t want to be here in the first place.”
I see her as mine for the taking. A woman who deserves to be claimed, to have her memories built by a man who won't disappoint.
I want her—with a hunger that makes my jaw clench.
She stands, then pauses. My fingers twitch with the urge to hold her wrist, to leave my mark with a touch.
"Thank you for sitting with me," she says, voice trembling slightly.
As she turns to leave, my hand shoots out, catching her wrist. Not tight—just enough to feel her pulse flutter beneath my thumb.
"Lucy," I say, her name like dark honey on my tongue. "It's your birthday. You deserve better than to spend it alone."
I rise to my feet, towering over her small frame, and extend my hand. "Let me show you how a woman like you should be celebrated."
Her eyes widen, moving between my face and my open hand. She hesitates for a moment, then her fingers slide into mine, warm and slightly trembling.
At my table, Enzo and Bruno exchange glances. They've seen me hunt before, but never like this. This is different.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCY
When his hand closes around mine, the contact feels deceptively ordinary, just skin on skin, but everything inside me shifts. It’s like the moment before an earthquake, when the ground goes still, then gives in to something bigger. My skin tingles as he pulls me toward the door, his palm almost covering my wrist. I know how to read powerful men: the ones who never hurry, who don’t apologize because the world bends for them. He moves like the air in the restaurant clears a path for him, and for the first time since I sat down, I feel visible—not just watched. Seen.
Basilio's crowd watches as Alessio leads me past the host stand. Every fork and knife stops, every conversation catches for a second before starting again. The old Italian man in the mural by the bar, who reminds me of my great-grandfather, seems to wink at me as I pass. I narrow my eyes, letting the edges blur, and for a moment, I pretend this was my plan all along: to be swept into a night that breaks through the careful boundaries I’ve always kept.
Outside, Midtown feels like another planet. Gray steam rises from a maintenance hole. Taxi lights flicker across the rough asphalt. Alessio keeps his hand steady on my wrist the wholeblock, as if I might drift away if he let go, until we reach a black car at the corner. Not just a car—a limousine. An old Lincoln stretch, shining like someone polished it for a New York that’s long gone. The driver inside wears a cap and sits perfectly still, almost with respect.
I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I should be more nervous. My mother’s warnings echo in my head: "Don’t take rides from men who don’t tell you their business," "Remember whose buildings line this city." But there’s something bold and real about him that makes me believe I’m not just the naïve girl in a cautionary tale. Not tonight.
He opens the rear door himself, guiding me in before getting in after me. The inside is dark and cool, with black leather and blue glass, and we’re wrapped in the quiet that comes after the doors close. My whole thigh presses against his.
“Where are we going?” I ask, surprised by how breathless my voice sounds. It’s higher and tighter than the one I use in meetings, with my mother, or on the phone to banks and realtors. Birthdays are supposed to mean something—maybe tonight it’s just a need for something new.
He turns to me, amusement flickering in his oddly colorless eyes. “A bar downtown. Tribeca. I’ve been told they offer the city’s best birthday drinks.”
I want to joke, but inside, I fizz. “I’ve never been to a bar in Tribeca.”
He smirks. “Then tonight, you’ll have experienced it all. Or at least the tip of it.”
The limousine moves into traffic. I expect him to make a move, maybe touch my knee or lean in, but he doesn’t. He just looks out the window. I watch him while pretending not to. He could be forty or fifty; I can’t tell. No ring. His face is lined at the eyes, but his beard is trimmed so precisely it looks like a dailyhabit, or like he never leaves anything to chance. That kind of control feels almost dangerous.