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“Good,” she said against my mouth. “You’ve destroyed me too.”

We finally left the hotel room around six that evening.

I had been ignoring my phone all day. It had buzzed at least twenty times, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that we needed food, needed to get out of this room before we suffocated in our own desire.

And I wanted to experience the city with her.

I wanted to experience everything I could.

“Where are we going?” she asked as we walked down Fifth Avenue, her hand in mine.

I knew it was a risk holding her hand in public. Anyone could see us. Anyone could report back to her father. But I didn’t care. I wanted to touch her, wanted everyone to see that she was with me. I wanted to claim her publicly, even though I knew it was dangerous.

“Wherever you want.” I smiled.

“I don’t know the city that well,” she admitted. “My father doesn’t let me go out much.”

The casual way she said it, as if it were normal, as if being a prisoner in her own life was just how things were, made rage simmer in my chest. But I pushed it down. Tonight wasn’t about anyone else, not her father, not my family, no one.

Tonight was about us.

“Then we’ll explore,” I said.

We walked through the Village, through neighborhoods I knew well from my years of doing business in New York. I took her to a small Italian bakery in Little Italy where they made the best cannoli I had ever tasted. We sat on a bench outside and ate them, powdered sugar dusting her lips, and I kissed it off while she laughed. We wandered through Chinatown, the streets crowded and loud and smelling of spices and roasted meat. I bought her soup dumplings from a street vendor, and she burned her tongue on the first one, which made her curse and made me laugh.

“You’re supposed to bite it first,” I said, demonstrating. “Let the broth cool.”

“Now you tell me,” she said, but she was smiling.

We held hands the entire time. I kept her close, my body between her and the crowd, protective even though there was no immediate threat. It was instinctual, keeping her safe, keeping her close, making sure nothing and no one could hurt her. Around midnight, we ended up in Central Park. The park was mostly empty at this hour, just a few joggers, some homeless people sleeping on benches, the occasional couple walking hand in hand like we were. The city lights reflected off the lake, and the air was cool and clean, a relief after the heat of the day.

We walked in silence for a while, just being together, and I realized this was the most peaceful I had felt in years. Maybe ever. There was no violence here, no business deals, no family obligations. Just her hand in mine and the sound of our footsteps on the path.

“This is nice,” she whispered softly.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”

We found a bench overlooking the lake and sat down. She leaned against me, her head on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her. For a long moment, we just sat there, watching the water, listening to the distant sounds of the city.

“Salvatore,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “What are we doing?”

I knew what she was asking. Not what were we doing right now, but what were we doing with this, with us, with this impossible situation we had created?

“I don’t know,” I admitted truthfully. “But I know I don’t want to stop.”

“My father.”

“I know.”

“He’ll find out eventually. And when he does…”

“I know,” I whispered. “I know what’s coming, baby. I’m not stupid. I know this can’t last forever. I know there will be consequences.”

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Are you scared?”

I thought about it. Thought about her father’s rage, about her uncle and the war that could come, about the blood that could be spilled. Thought about my own family’s reaction, about Giovanni’s disappointment, about the life I was risking for this woman.

“No,” I admitted truthfully, again. “I’m not scared. I should be. But I’m not.”