The tires hum against the asphalt as the Castello shrinks in the rearview mirror. I trail behind Nicolo, far enough that he won’t notice me, but close enough that I won’t lose sight of him. My car drifts toward the oncoming lane before I even register it, a horn ripping through the air as I jerk the wheel back.
Jesus. Focus, Mara.
I can’t afford to lose sight of him.
Streetlights blur into streaks of gold. My pulse climbs higher with every block. By the time I pull up near Di Matteo’s, my palms are slick against the wheel. The pizzeria squats on the corner like it’s been there forever: cracked neon sign buzzing faintly, windows lit in a warm glow that feels too inviting, too wrong.
I spot him instantly: broad shoulders cutting a clean line as he steps out of his car, jacket dark, jaw set, every inch of him radiating danger. He doesn’t glance around; he doesn’t need to. The street bends around his presence like it knows who’s in charge.
I kill the engine, heart jackhammering, and watch as he disappears inside. The moment the door shuts behind him, I flip down the visor, swipe fresh gloss across my lips, and press them together until they shine. Duchess meows softly, restless.
“Relax,” I murmur, grabbing her carrier and sliding her inside, ignoring her indignant hiss. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
And then, without giving myself time to think, I step out of the car, heels clicking against the cracked sidewalk. The night air is thick with smoke and oil and danger.
I push open the door to Di Matteo’s. The bell above the door rattles as I step inside, and immediately the air thickens. Nicolo sits at the back table with three other men, and every single gun in the room swings toward me.
I freeze mid-step, not from fear—though my pulse is rioting—but because of the sheer weight of it. The whole pizzeria feels like it’s holding its breath, the smoke and the heat and the tension pressing down so hard I almost choke on it.
And then I say something I probably shouldn’t. “Wow. Cozy little dinner party you’ve got going on.”
The growl that rips out of Nicolo is low and guttural, a sound so raw it scrapes across my skin. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I square my shoulders, force my chin high, and pretend I don’t notice the way every predator in the room is looking at me like I just volunteered to be the main course.
“What does it look like?” I say, voice steady. “I followed you.”
Nicolo closes the distance between us in three long strides. His hand clamps down on my arm, hot and punishing, draggingme in close. His jaw is tight, his eyes molten, like he could burn me alive just by glaring hard enough.
The men at the table watch. Interested. Hungry. The one in the center leans back in his chair, his gaze cutting through the haze like a blade. He’s older, his face lined but sharp, his whole presence screaming control. When he speaks, it’s smooth as oil.
“Well, well… Esposito brought us a mystery,” he says, eyes dragging over me with slow, deliberate calm. “Tell me, does he always walk in with something this tempting on his arm?”
Nicolo’s grip tightens, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I meet the man’s eyes head-on and let a slow smile curl across my mouth.
“I have a name.”
He lets out a small huff, as if he’s laughing. “I’m Fausto Mancini, and you are?”
“Mara.”
The cigarette-smoking one—lean, restless, a little feral—laughs, smoke curling around his grin. The one who looks to be the youngest just watches, silent and unreadable, like he’s memorizing me down to the last detail.
Fausto doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. He just plucks up a napkin, scribbles something on it with calm precision, and slides it across the table.
“If you ever tire of Esposito’s hospitality…” he murmurs. “Call me.”
I glance down at the napkin, lips parting to say something sharp…
But Nicolo’s faster. His hand lashes out, snatching the napkin and crumpling it into his fist.
His voice comes out like gravel ground under steel. “This meeting’s over. We’ll reschedule.”
Before I can react, he’s yanking me toward the door. My heels scrape the tile, Duchess’s carrier swinging from my hand, and still, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even glance back.
The cold air slams into me as the door swings shut behind us. And Nicolo doesn’t let go. He hauls me across the cracked sidewalk to his car, movements sharp and furious. His grip bites into my arm, but it’s not just the physical hold. It’s the way his entire body vibrates with barely-controlled rage.
He shoves the passenger door open, practically lifts me inside, and slams it shut after me. Duchess meows in protest from her carrier. Nicolo circles to the driver’s side, his movements clipped, each one sharper than the last.
