“Food. Sustenance. The thing humans require to continue functioning.” He tilts his head, and there’s something almost playful in his expression now. Almost warm. “We can discuss the damage assessment over lunch. It is a necessary administrativefunction, Miss Murphy. I’m making it an official part of your day.”
“I had coffee.”
“Coffee is not food.”
“Tell that to my bloodstream.”
He smiles properly this time. It transforms his face from beautiful to devastating, the kind of smile that would make a smarter woman run and a weaker woman surrender. I’m neither, but the butterflies in my stomach take off anyway.
“There’s a café nearby,” he says. “Would you allow me to buy you lunch?”
“The café around the corner? Prima?”
“If that is your preference.”
I should say no. There’s so much work I still have to get through. But he said he’s from the Marchetti Foundation, which means he works for the people who are funding this restoration, funding my stay here, my apartment, my salary…. I can’t say no without a damn good reason. Plus my stomach is empty, my back hurts, and Rosa’s fried ricotta things are calling to me from across the piazza. And maybe there’s a part of me that’s tired of eating alone. Tired of being the sad American with her single espresso and her notebook full of damage codes and her conversations with nobody.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “But I’m ordering my own food. And you’re not allowed to comment on how much or how little I eat.”
“Agreed.”
“And this is...” I gesture vaguely between us. “It’s an administrative review.”
“An administrative review,” he says smoothly. “Over coffee. Between colleagues.”
Between colleagues.
“Let me get my bag.”
I turn back to the scaffolding to grab my supplies, his gaze warm and steady on my back the whole time. Watching. Waiting. Patient in a way that should unnerve me but doesn’t.
I relax a little as we walk out of the cathedral together, into the noon sunlight. The café is just across from us, and inside there’s Rosa, who will definitely have opinions about my lunch and my companion.
It’s just coffee, I tell myself as we walk accros the piazza, his shoulder close enough to mine that I heat radiates of him.
Just coffee.
4
ELIO
Rosa spots us the moment we step through the café door. Her eyes narrow, flicking between Violet and me with the kind of suspicion that comes from decades of reading people who walk into her establishment, before they turn to fear with recognition. Smart woman. She knows who I am, knows I don’t belong here, with my tailored suit and my Maserati parked around the corner. Knows men in my family don’t sit in places like this for the coffee.
But Violet doesn’t notice. She’s already moving toward her usual table by the window, the one I’ve watched her occupy for the past three weeks. The afternoon light catches the auburn in her hair, turning it to copper and flame.
Already mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.
The certainty settles behind my ribs. Not new. Just finally named.
“The usual?” Rosa calls out, still eyeing me with distrust and fear.
“Please.” Violet slides into her chair, dropping her bag beside her feet. “And one of those ricotta things.”
“Espresso,” I say. “Doppio.”
Rosa grunts and disappears behind the counter. I take the seat across from Violet, positioning myself so I can see both the door and the street. Old habits. The kind that keep men like me breathing.
“So.” Violet leans back, those green eyes studying me with the same careful attention she gives her crumbling frescoes. “Administrative review. Where do you want to start?”
