“So,” he says, after a full minute of companionable silence, “is twenty-five a landmark year for you, Lucia?”
He says Lucia, not Lucy, rolling the last vowel like a thumb across the piano keys. The way it lingers on his tongue does things to my insides I have no language for.
Not really," I say. "Unless you count the milestone of being stood up on my birthday. I think that's a personal record."
He laughs, deep and shaking, a sound that seems to vibrate between my thighs. "He was a blind date? I'll track him down for you and make him publicly apologize." His face softens. "But I think you wear disappointment beautifully."
I roll my eyes, but it’s impossible not to smile. “That's the line you use on all the lonely girls?”
His face grows stern. “There’s only the one tonight.”
The city glows outside: neon from Koreatown fades into dark residential streets, then the lights of SoHo. Alessio’s knee bumps mine as we turn. I shift, feeling self-conscious, but he either doesn’t notice or acts like he doesn’t.
I want to fill the silence, but I can tell he enjoys it. I realize I like it too.
Time feels strange in the car. I wonder if this is how hostages start to care for their captors—not because they’re kind, but because they focus on you so much that you feel important, even if just for a moment. When we stop in front of the bar, I expect something flashy, but it’s tucked into an unmarked brownstone, the door so plain I check the address twice before following him out. He helps me from the car, and I almost trip on the curb, nearly pulling him with me.
“I don’t bite,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“That’s unfortunate,” I say, surprising myself.
Inside, the bar glows with warm light, all brass and soft lamps, filled with the scent of perfume and bourbon. Alessio seems to know everyone—the host whispers his name and quickly leads us to a hidden booth at the back, away from the windows. The booth is deep red velvet, and the table is lit by a small, flickering candelabra.
He orders for both of us: a vintage champagne for me, neat scotch for himself. When the hostess—she’s stunning, clearly Eastern European, with cheekbones like switchblades—returns, he calls her by name, and her eyes linger a fraction too long on me before she leaves. I file that away for later, unsure whether to be flattered or worried.
He knocks back his scotch in one practiced motion, then gives me a look of such naked curiosity that I shiver.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.
“You don’t,” I reply, chin up.
“I do,” he says. “You’re wondering what I do, how old I am, and if I’m going to kidnap you before the night is out.”
He’s right, and I hate that he’s right. “You forgot ‘whether you’ll get my number or just memorize my address.’”
He leans in, exhaling whiskey and clove. “I don’t need to ask for your number. You’ll give it freely, then answer if I call.”
The champagne is cold and tastes like citrus and something risky. Alessio refills my glass before it’s even half empty. I’m very aware of my dress—the way I keep pulling at the hem, how the neckline suddenly feels too low. He watches me with a calm, patient look that somehow makes me bolder.
I set my glass down and make my voice light. “So, what do you do, Alessio Morrone?”
He narrows his eyes with amusement. "I dabble in many things." He shrugs, one shoulder lifting higher than the other. "I'm the man behind the powerful. The one who makes sure certain doors open and others remain firmly closed."
"Wow, so you're what—some kind of shadow puppeteer?" I say, trying to sound unimpressed despite the prickle along my spine.
"Something like that," he says with a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
I feel drunk, but not on alcohol. "And when you're not pulling strings?"
"My children keep me busy enough." His voice softens almost imperceptibly. "Bruno and Carina. Both spoiled rotten, though I've only myself to blame." He takes a slow sip of his drink. "Carina, at least, has a good head on her shoulders. Gets herself into trouble, but she's typically smart enough to get out before things get out of hand." A shadow crosses his face. "Bruno is... another story."
His expression turns grave; he looks at me like I am part of a puzzle he can't put together. "Beyond that, keeping my family together. Trying not to disappoint anyone."
My throat tightens. There’s a sadness in his answer, but I know I shouldn’t care. Still, it makes me want to help him heal, even if I shouldn’t.
He takes my hand, flat palm up, thumb sweeping along the base of my fingers.
“Have you been in love, Lucia?” he asks, as if it’s standard bar chitchat.