She leans forward slightly.
"No one knows you've been watching me. Not Pietro. Not Nico. Not even Dante, and he notices everything." A pause. "So how?"
I could deflect. Most men would. Most men would spin some story about coincidence, about shared information between our families, about educated guesses.
But I don't lie.
It's not a moral stance. Not some noble principle I've constructed to feel superior. It's simply how I'm built. How my system works. The pathways in my brain that connect thought to speech don't include the detour through deception.
I once told a woman I didn't enjoy having sex with her. She'd asked how it was, fishing for compliments, and the words came out before I could consider softening them.It was adequate. I've had better.She cried. Called me a monster. She wasn't wrong.
I don't lie to be cruel. I don't lie to be kind. I simply don't lie.
"The old-fashioned way," I say. "A man watches you. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."
Vittoria's expression doesn't change. But her fingers stop tapping.
"One man?"
"One primary. Two backups for shift coverage."
"Where?"
"Varies. Coffee shop across from your favorite breakfast spot on Thursdays. The gym you visit Tuesday and Saturday mornings. The parking structure near the compound's east entrance." I take another sip of wine. "Your friend Amanda's apartment building has excellent sightlines from the rooftop across the street."
Her throat moves as she swallows.
"Since the gala?"
"Since the gala."
She picks up her wine glass. Her hand is steadier than I expected. She drinks deeply, sets it down, and meets my gaze head-on.
"The man watching me," she says slowly. "I want to know who he is."
"No."
Her chin lifts. "Why not?"
"Because you'll try to lose him. And then I'll have to assign someone better. Someone you won't spot even when you're looking." I lean forward, closing the distance between us. "I'd rather keep things simple."
"Simple." She laughs—a real one this time, sharp and bitter. "You think any of this is simple?"
"Simple," I repeat. I push back from the table slowly. Rise to my feet. Her eyes track my movement.
I circle around the table. Dante tenses in my peripheral vision, hand moving toward his jacket. But he doesn't approach. He knows better than to interfere with a conversation between potential allies.
I stop beside Vittoria's chair.
She doesn't look up. Her fingers curl around her wine glass stem.
I lean down. My lips brush the shell of her ear.
"You want to know what would be simple?" My voice drops low. Intimate. For her alone. "Tearing that pretty dress off your body right here. Bending you over this table. Fucking you until you scream my name loud enough for every person in this restaurant to hear."
Her breath catches. I watch the flush creep up her neck. Watch her pulse jump at her throat.
"That would be simple," I continue. "Showing them exactly how beautiful you look when you come apart. Making them watch while I ruin you for anyone else."
