My mouth goes dry. “What do you want?” I hear my voice, low and tight, but it doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like the terrified wife of three years ago who’d do anything to keep herself safe, even pretend that everything’s fine just to survive.
He smiles, slow and easy, hands in his pockets like we’re sharing pleasantries instead of standing on a city street where my heart feels like it’s about to claw its way out of my chest. “You work for Lucien Moretti now,” he says, not a question but a fact. “Interesting choice.”
I take a step back automatically, clutching my bag strap so hard my fingers ache. “Leave me alone.”
“Not possible, darling,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his cologne — something expensive and sharp — to hit me like a memory I’ve spent years trying to bury. “You’re mine. Always have been, always will be.”
I freeze, fear slamming into me like ice water, but I force myself to meet his gaze. “I divorced you.” My voice cracks. “Three years ago. You don’t own me anymore, Matteo.”
He tilts his head, that dangerous, mocking smile curving his lips. I used to adore his smile, when it meant something. How quickly that smile turned to a snarl and his real character came to the fore. “Paper doesn’t change blood. You know how this works.”
I stumble back another step, nearly colliding with a passerby. My hand shakes as I lift my cell. “If you come near me again, I’ll?—”
“You’ll what?” he says softly, stepping closer until the shadow of his coat swallows me. “Call Moretti? Tell him his shiny new PA comes with baggage he doesn’t need? Go ahead. I’d love to hear what he thinks he’s going to do about it.”
Heat rushes to my face, shame and fury tangled together, but I can’t force the words past the lump in my throat.
He smiles again, slow and dark, then straightens his cuffs and steps back. “Be careful walking around these parts,” he says lightly, as though we’re discussing the weather. “New York’s dangerous, even in the daytime.”
And just like that, he turns and walks away, melting into the crowd like a ghost.
I stand there frozen, breathing hard, until my phone buzzes in my hand. A text from Stacy.
Where are you?You’re late and Mr. Moretti is asking for you.
My thumb hoversover the reply box, but I can’t bring myself to type anything. Not yet. Not when my pulse is still racing, notwhen the ground beneath me feels like it’s just cracked open and swallowed every illusion of safety I’ve clung to.
Because my goddamn past isn’t over.
It’s walking away right in front of me.
EIGHT
LUCIEN
Anthony meetsme outside my office before I’ve even finished my first coffee. One look at his face and the caffeine goes tasteless in my mouth.
“We lost her this morning,” he says without preamble, voice clipped. “The tail I put on Locke — they lost her around Forty-Second.”
My fingers tighten around the mug. “What the fuck do you mean, lost her?”
“She took a different route to the subway, cut through the side streets. Before we could pick her back up, Matteo Romero showed. They spoke, from what I can gather, a short conversation, before my man caught her again and saw Romero leave her. She looked shaken but not harmed.”
Ice slides through my veins. “You’re telling me she ran into Romero? Today?”
Anthony nods once, jaw hard. “Cornered her on a side street. Cameras caught him talking to her, but no audio.”
I set the mug down slowly, deliberately, because if I don’t, I’ll shatter it in my hand. “Get her in my office,” I say, voice low. “Now.” The past slams into me without warning—an alley slickwith rain, blood dripping from my knuckles, my father’s voice in my ear telling me to finish the job. I shove the memory down hard. How easily that ending could have been for her.
She walks in ten minutes later, unaware I already know everything. She looks pale beneath the soft flush of makeup, her dark hair curling damp around her face from the drizzle outside. A bag clutched in her hands, eyes carefully fixed anywhere but on me.
“Miss Locke, my office. Now.” My tone halts any argument.
She freezes at my tone, then obeys silently, shutting the door behind her. I lean back in my chair, studying her. “You had an interesting morning.”
Her gaze meets mine, startled. “I—It’s not what you think.”
“Don’t,” I bite out, sharper than intended. “Don’t stand there and tell me that it’s not exactly what I think.”
