Somehow, I manage to be annoyed with myself and him and the universe, all at once.
After work, Gregory Waters is waiting for me at the La Colombe on Lafayette, right at the edge of SoHo. He’s evenmore wholesome than I remember—clean white shirt, blue tie with discreet skulls embroidered on the lining, dark hair swept back like he’s been engineered for a J.Crew catalog. He stands as I approach, and for one paralyzing second, I flash to Alessio pinning me to the elevator wall. I nearly lose it right then.
“Lucy!” he says, genuinely. “You look fantastic.” He offers a handshake, then aborts it for an awkward hug that shudders briefly against my shoulder and ribs. His arms smell like fabric softener and some generic, inoffensive men’s cologne. I pull back and try to reset my mouth into a smile.
“Gregory, hi,” I say. “It’s so good to meet you.”
He ducks his head, gesturing toward the corner table, already holding two cappuccinos in to-go cups, a small graveyard of sugar packets and stirring sticks between them. He’s stacked napkins in a neat fan, and there’s a glossy, obviously new copy ofThe Economistpeeking out from under his phone. I sit, careful with my coat, and smooth my skirt.
“I got here early,” he says, after a beat. “Habit. My dad always said, " Ten minutes early is on time.” He laughs, a little sharp, a little forced.
I look at my hands, the bones showing blue under the café’s harsh lights, my fingernails still marked by his grip. My skin feels too thin, as if it’s hiding something. I can’t stop thinking that Alessio might walk in, see me with this harmless man, and change everything. The thought is overwhelming—his dark suit at the door, his eyes meeting mine, and the silence that would follow.
Even as Gregory talks about his father’s punctuality, I feel a prickling at the back of my neck, every hair standing up. The café noise fades, replaced by the sound of my own heartbeat. My skin tightens across my shoulders, an old instinct warning me. I know, without looking, that somewhere outside, Alessio is watching me, his eyes fixed on me through the glass.
I know he’s near.
CHAPTER FOUR
ALESSIO
You don’t fuck a woman the way I fucked Lucia and expect to recover in the morning.
You don’t hold her face like it’s the last living thing, or bury your hand in her hair until she’s writhing and scratched up and folded around you like a fevered prayer, and then watch her button her coat at the door with shaking fingers and think, Yes, she’ll disappear quietly and I’ll remember only the heat.
No, you hold something even if it’s just the outline of her teeth in your shoulder, which is what I see when I stumble to the bathroom at five, chest still aching and eyes raw with the effort of not chasing her into the elevator.
It’s a good bite mark. She’s left a perfect half-moon right above the clavicle. I trace it, already missing her, already calculating how long she’ll stay away before the pull snaps her back.
I’m not an optimist, not by trade or habit. But there are some things my gut has never been wrong about, and this is one of them: she will return.
We are inevitable.
I make myself a double espresso and stand at the penthouse window, staring east, where the city is pink-silver and sogrotesquely beautiful I want to punch through it. My world is falling apart in a thousand little ways—Bruno skipping classes, Carina is trying my patience, there are Russians moving guns through Brighton, Enzo throwing tantrums in back rooms over menial insults—but none of it registers. She’s the splinter under my fingernail, and all I can do is pick at it, waiting for the pain to become relief.
The doorbell rings at seven. I don’t answer it; I’m not expecting her yet. The girl is impulsive but not careless, not after the way she ran last night. She has pride. I appreciate that, almost as much as I hate it.
At eight, Enzo comes by. He’s wearing the same suit he wore yesterday—he gets them custom-made from a guy in Little Italy who owes me three favors—and holding two paper bags. One emits the sharp medicinal scent of fried garlic, and the other is bristling with pill packs. For the hangover, he says, but I know better. My cousin is always preparing for war, even when he denies the existence of battle. It’s what makes him valuable.
“Did you hear from her?” he asks, without sitting down, eyes scanning the kitchen for signs of intrusion.
“She left,” I say. “Around five. She was in a hurry.”
He grins. “She must have been good.”
I ignore the provocation and swallow my coffee in one punishing gulp. My head feels hollowed out, as if last night’s hunger burned away something fundamental, leaving a raw echo I can’t fill.
Enzo’s eyes prowl over my shoulder. “You going to call her, or?—?”
“She’ll come back.” I sound delusional. I know. I don’t care. “They always do.”
He cocks his head, not sarcastic, just measuring. “What makes her different?”
I show him my shoulder. He laughs, all teeth. "Got you good, huh?"
"She left a mark," I say, and something in my chest twists like a screw.
After Enzo leaves, I call my driver and instruct him to wait outside her apartment. Then I call someone else—the guy I keep for background, surveillance, the boring shit. His name is Mickey, and he’s exactly as dangerous as a paper cut unless you’re the one being bled.