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“You don’t need to thank me,” I said.
“I do, though.”
“Then you’re welcome.”
We reached the restaurant, and I held the door open for her. She hesitated for just a moment, one last chance to change her mind, to walk away, to choose safety over whatever this was.
Then she stepped inside.
And I followed her into the warmth and the light, knowing that everything had just changed, that there was no going back now, that I had just made a choice that would have consequences I couldn’t predict or control.
But as I watched her take off her coat, as I saw the way the candlelight caught in her hair, as I caught the faint scent of her perfume, something floral and delicate and entirely her… I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
Some mistakes were worth making.
Even the ones that destroyed you.
CHAPTER FIVE
Piccola Cucina was exactly what I promised. Small, intimate, tucked away on a quiet street where tourists rarely wandered. The kind of place you only knew about if you were born in the neighborhood or if someone who mattered told you about it.
The interior was warm, lit by candles on each table and soft amber lights strung along the exposed brick walls. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths lined the tables. The smell of garlic and basil and fresh bread lingered in the air. Opera played softly from speakers I couldn’t see. Puccini, I thought, though I had never been good at telling one composer from another.
There were maybe a dozen tables, half of them occupied when we arrived. An older couple in the corner. A group of four near the window, laughing over wine. A man dining alone with a book propped against his water glass.
Normal people. Living normal lives.
I led Madigan to a table in the back, away from the windows, away from the door. The most private spot in the place. My hand found the small of her back as I guided her through the restaurant, and even through the fabric of her dress, the contact sent electricity up my arm. She sat down carefully, as if she were afraid the chair might collapse beneath her, then folded her hands in her lap.
I couldn’t stop looking at her. The way the candlelight painted gold across her pale skin. The way her dark red hair fell over one shoulder. The delicate curve of her neck.
My heart was beating too fast.
“This is nice,” she whispered.
“It’s one of my favorite places in the city.” My voice came out rougher than I intended.
“Do you come here often?”
“When I’m in New York. I know the owner.”
She glanced around, taking it in, and I watched her face like a starving man. Watched the way her eyes softened when she looked at the flowers on the table. Simple daisies in a glass vase. She reached out and touched one of the petals, gently, like she was afraid of breaking it, and I found myself mesmerized by the movement of her fingers.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
You’re beautiful. The words caught in my throat. I’d killed men without hesitation, had negotiated deals worth millions, had stared down the barrel of a gun more times than I could count. But sitting across from this woman, I couldn’t form a simple sentence.
A waiter appeared, young, efficient, professional. He set down menus and filled our water glasses without a word, then disappeared again.
Madigan picked up her menu, but I could tell she wasn’t really reading it. Her hands were shaking slightly, and she kept glancing toward the door as if she expected someone to burst through it at any moment.
“He won’t find us here,” I said, leaning forward. I wanted to reach across the table, to take her hand, to touch her.
The need was almost physical.
She looked up at me, and the full force of those eyes hit me like a punch to the chest. “How do you know?”
“Because no one knows we’re here. And even if they did, they wouldn’t tell him.” I held her gaze, willing her to believe me, to trust me. “Madigan, you’re safe here. I promise.”
