This was my chance.
Moving with practiced silence, I reached for the steak knife beside my plate. The blade was sharp, substantial—exactly what I needed. As Vittorio's conversation continued, growing more heated, I palmed a second knife from the serving tray.
"Double the watch. No one gets through…" Vittorio's voice carried an edge of urgency that confirmed my suspicions. We were under some kind of threat.
The knives felt solid and reassuring in my hands as I carefully tucked them into the folds of my dress. Whatever was coming, I wouldn't face it defenseless.
When Vittorio ended the call and returned to the table, his facade of calm was even thinner than before.
"Everything alright?" I asked innocently, cutting into my steak.
His eyes studied me for a long moment, and I wondered if he'd noticed anything. But he simply said, "Just business."
The way he said it told me everything I needed to know. This wasn't routine business—this was the kind that ended in bloodshed.
"You know," I said conversationally, "for someone who claims to be protecting me, you seem remarkably unconcerned about whatever has your entire security team armed and ready for battle."
Vittorio set down his fork, giving me his full attention. "You're very observant."
"I've had to be." I met his gaze steadily. "Survival depends on reading the signs."
"And what signs are you reading now?"
I gestured subtly toward the window, where another guard was now visible. "That you're expecting trouble. The kind that requires overwhelming force to handle."
His phone buzzed again. This time, he didn't excuse himself—just read the message with growing tension evident in the set of his shoulders.
"How bad is it?" I asked quietly.
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, that I was asking instead of demanding. "Bad enough."
We finished the main course in tense silence, the weight of unspoken threats hanging between us. When the servers began clearing plates, Vittorio dismissed them with a curt nod.
"Leave us," he instructed.
Alone now, the dining room felt smaller, more intimate despite the danger pressing in from outside. Vittorio moved closer, and despite everything, I felt that familiar pull between us—dangerous and undeniable.
"You're planning something," he said, not quite a question.
"I'm always planning something." I stood, smoothing my skirt and feeling the reassuring weight of the knives hidden in my dress. "The question is whether you'll try to stop me."
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "That depends on what you're planning."
The air between us crackled with electricity. The memory of his hands on my body, his mouth claiming mine, burned between us like a live wire. Part of me wanted to step into his arms again, to lose myself in the heat and forget about the danger surrounding us.
Instead, I tilted my chin up defiantly. "I'm planning to survive. Whatever's coming, whoever's out there—I won't go down without a fight."
Something shifted in his expression—approval, maybe, or respect. "And that night?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. I knew what night he was referring to. "What about it?"
"I said it was a mistake." He reached out, his fingers ghosting along my jaw. "I was wrong."
The admission caught me off guard. "Why?"
"Because you make me forget who I'm supposed to be." His thumb traced my lower lip, and I felt my resolve wavering. "Because when I'm with you, I want things I can't afford to want."
Before I could respond, his phone rang again—sharp and insistent. The spell broke as he stepped back, all business once more.
