I held his gaze, trying to read him the way I used to. Back when I thought I knew him. His expression was steady, his voice even. Either he was telling the truth, or he’d become a much better liar than I remembered.
I should say no.
Every rational part of my brain screamed at me to say no.
But this was the first time Rocco Palazzo had ever asked me for anything. The first time he’d stood in front of me without disgust or dread in his eyes.
And god help me—I wanted to know why.
“One night,” I said. My voice shook, and I hated it. “That’s all you’re getting.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. He nodded once.
“And Rocco? If you shut me out again—if you go cold on me, if you so much as look at me like I’m nothing—we’re done. Permanently.”
“I understand.”
“Seven o’clock,” I said. “Don’t be late. Do you even know where I live?”
“No.” Something shifted in his eyes—a glint of amusement, maybe, or something darker. “But I know someone who does.”
A chill ran down my spine. Rose. He had to mean Rose. At least I hoped it was Rose. I didn’t want to think that Angelo Santi knew where I lived and was keeping tabs on me.
But the way he said it—like he had secrets I couldn’t begin to guess at—made me wonder if I’d just made a terrible mistake.
He turned to go, and I grabbed his arm before I could think better of it. The contact sent heat jolting through me—my desire screaming to life at the touch.
Rocco went still. His jaw tightened.
“Rocco.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “What are you really doing here? And don’t tell me it’s just a favor for Angelo.”
He looked down at my hand on his arm, then back up at my face. For a moment—just a moment—I saw something crack in that careful mask. Something raw. Something desperate.
Then it was gone.
“Seven o’clock,” he said quietly. “Wear something nice.”
He pulled free of my grip and walked out of the café without looking back.
I stood there, heart pounding, coffee forgotten, watching him disappear into the crowd.
What the hell had I just agreed to?
Chapter Six
Rocco
Angelo had paid my rent at the Mardi Gras Hotel for the next two months.
Generous of him, considering he was the reason I'd lost my job at Bernie's. He'd offered me a room at Crescent Manor instead—something with silk sheets and a view that didn't include a broken neon sign. I'd turned him down.
I wasn't one of his men.
I wasn't an enforcer.
I wasn't even his damn chauffeur.
I was the guy he'd made an offer to. The kind you don't refuse. The kind that comes with a threat wrapped around your mother's throat.
