The words came out softer, a little more intimate, than he intended. Francesca’s expression shifted, a slight smile finding her beautiful face.
Okay, maybe he did intend it.
She reached across the table, then, “Will you wait for me tonight? After thecasettacloses? We could take a walk to the shore...”
He considered her hand, drew a breath. Eighteen months of this gentle dance. Dinners that became conversations. And yes, an evening stroll along the coastline, where she’d pointed out fishing boats and he’d pretended this was his only life.
Maybe it was. Maybe he’d left everything else behind.
Maybe he could be Alfonzo forever.
He took her hand, rubbed his thumb across hers. “Yes,” he said. “I will wait.”
“And then you will tell me what haunts you sometimes?” She raised an eyebrow.
Oh.But he supposed she could see the shadows in his eyes.
“Not tonight,” he said. “Someday.”
She squeezed his hand. “I guess that’s what makes you interesting, no? The mystery.”
Her words twisted something deep in his chest. If she only knew what kind of mystery she was flirting with.
A shadow fell across their table.
“Mind if I join you?”
Alan looked up.What—He froze.
Francesca leaned away, her grip on his hand loosening.
Damien Gustov. Dressed in a pair of khakis, his dark hair swept back, very European, wearing a linen shirt and a half smile. Cocky, and why not? The assassin had clearly found Alan when no one else had.
Alan crossed his arms. Narrowed his eyes.
Francesca frowned as she glanced between them. “Would you like a table,signuri? The kitchen is still?—”
“Actually, I was hoping to catch up with my old friend here.” Damien’s smile broadened as if they were indeed old friends and not handler and informant, once upon a time.
Alan had recruited Damien. Helped turn him into what he was today.
“Alex, you look well. Sicily agrees with you.”
Alex.The name felt ancient from disuse.
“It’s Alfonzo,” he said, glancing at Francesca. She had gotten up, wrapped her arms around her waist. His gut twisted as he said, “And Francesca, this is Damien. An old... business associate.”
She extended her hand with typical Sicilian warmth. “Piaciri.Any friend of Alfonzo’s is welcome here.”
Damien took her hand, bent slightly at the waist—a gesture from another era that somehow managed to be both charming and slightly mocking. “The pleasure is entirely mine,signorina.And please, don’t let me interrupt your evening. I just need to borrowAlfonzofor a few minutes.”
Francesca glanced at Alan, worry in her expression.
“It’s fine.” He gave her a smile. He wouldn’t bring trouble to her family’scasetta.“Could you bring him a glass of the Nero d’Avola?”
“Of course.” She shot Damien one more assessing look, then headed toward the bar.
Damien settled into her vacated chair, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back. “Charming girl.”