“You love it,” he observes.
“I do. It’s hard work, and the margins are terrible, and I’m constantly worried about making rent, but...” I shrug. “It’s mine. I created it. Every flower, every arrangement, every satisfied customer—that’s all me. How many people get to say that about their work?”
“Not many.”
“What about you? Do you love what you do?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “It’s complicated.”
“Most important things are.”
“Yes.” He’s watching me with those intense dark eyes again, and I feel pinned in place. “You’re very easy to talk to.”
“Is that surprising?”
“Yes. I don’t usually...” He trails off, seeming to struggle for words. “I don’t do this. Dates. Conversation. Normal.”
“Well, you’re doing great.” And I mean it. Yes, he’s a bit awkward. Yes, there’s something dangerous about him I can’t quite put my finger on. But he’s also genuine in a way most men I’ve dated aren’t. He’s not trying to impress me with money or connections. He’s just here. Present. Listening like what I have to say matters.
“Thank you for inviting me up here,” he says quietly. “For sharing this space with me. I know you don’t know me very well, and it was probably not the smartest decision—”
“Hey.” I lean closer, placing my coffee cup down with a soft click. “I know people, and everything about you says you’re a good man, Alessandro De Luca. Complicated, secretive, ridiculously hot in those suits that probably cost more than my rent. And the way you keep eyeing my windows? I’m not sure if you’re planning an escape or imagining how fast you could throw me out of one.”
He goes very still. “You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot of things. I also noticed the gun under your jacket.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to leave. Or lie. Or both.
Instead, he says, “I should probably explain—”
The explosion cuts him off.
One second, we’re sitting on my couch, having coffee and conversation. The next, the entire building shakes. The windows rattle. My Christmas tree tips over. And the sound, God, the sound is deafening, like thunder, breaking glass and destruction all rolled into one.
I scream. I can’t help it.
Alessandro is on his feet instantly, moving toward the window with a speed that shouldn’t be possible. His whole demeanor haschanged, he’s no longer the awkward man struggling with small talk. In his place is someone cold, controlled, and terrifying.
“Stay away from the windows,” he barks, his voice sharp with command.
I scramble off the couch, my heart hammering. “What was that? What’s happening?”
He’s on his phone, speaking in rapid Italian. Through the window, I can see smoke rising from somewhere down the street. There are people running, screaming. Car alarms blaring.
“Alessandro—”
“Stay here.” He’s already moving toward the door, shrugging into his coat. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone except me.”
“Wait, what? You can’t just leave—”
He turns back, and the look on his face stops me cold. This is not the man who was just sitting on my couch, hesitantly answering questions about his favorite color. This is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.
“Elena.” He crosses back to me in two strides, taking my face in his hands. His touch is gentle despite the urgency in his voice. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. Lock the door. Stay away from the windows. Do not leave this apartment until I come back for you. Do you understand?”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Good. You should be scared. But you’ll be safe if you do exactly what I say.” His thumbs brush across my cheekbones, and for a second, I see something in his eyes, regret, maybe or an apology? “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I have to go.”
