He’s watching me.
He always is.
Amber raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s the one?”
“No,” I say immediately. Yes, his gaze feels about as constant as the footsteps I hear when I’m coming home at night, but not in a way that makes me want to run. Whatever danger lurks into those liquid gold eyes isn’t aimed at me.
I don’t know how I know it. I just know I do.
Amber looks surprised. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I have,” I tell her. “A lot,” I add.
“And?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “It’s not him.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I search for the right words and come up empty. “Because if he wanted to hurt me, he would have already.”
That earns me a look. “That’s… not reassuring.”
I huff out a laugh. “I didn’t say it was logical.”
Matteo shifts slightly, like he feels the weight of my attention. His gaze meets mine. Dark. Unreadable. There’s no smile. No invitation.
Just awareness.
Heat crawls up my neck. I look away first.
“Besides,” I add, lowering my voice, “I’m not exactly his type.”
Amber snorts. “Then he’s an idiot.”
“He’s rich,” I say. “Powerful. Scary. He doesn’t look at women like me and think long walks and shared trauma.”
She grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips anyway.
The truth is, Matteo Moretti is a rumor in a suit. Brooklyn’s most dangerous Don. The kind of man you don’t look at twice unless you want trouble. I’ve heard things. Everyone has.
And still, his attention doesn’t scare me the way it should. Maybe because I’ve been on the receiving end of scarier things in the past. Not something I like dwelling on.
Amber finishes wiping down the bar. “Okay. We’re officially closed. You ready?”
No,I want to say, but I don’t. I just nod and slide off the stool, looping my bag strap over my shoulder. My legs feel stiff, like they always do when I’ve been sitting too long, waiting.
Then I swallow my fear and follow Amber outside.
2
MATTEO
Ihave a clear view of every exit from the lounge, and I track them without thinking. It’s habit. Same with the way I keep my attention loose enough to follow movement without committing to it. People mistake stillness for distraction. It isn’t.
Rose sits at the bar with a mocktail she hasn’t finished. She hasn’t finished any of them, not once in weeks. She keeps her bag looped around her ankle, posture careful, shoulders tight. Every time the door opens, her head lifts a fraction too fast.
