Call me Nico.
I shove the memory aside like I’ve always done. “Right this way,” I say.
I lead him across the dining room toward the table reserved for the Dons.
The others are already there. Giovanni Gallo is leaning back in his chair with a glass of bourbon, looking amused bysomething Matteo Moretti just said. Moretti himself looks like he would rather be anywhere else in the world. Two chairs are still empty, I realize.
Lucchese and Romano haven’t arrived yet.
I pull out the chair at the head of the table. “Your table, Mr. Neri.”
He pauses beside me.
Up close he smells faintly of expensive cologne and the cold air from outside.
“Thank you,” he says.
I give him a polite smile.
“Of course.”
I turn and walk away before my composure has time to crack.
Seven years.
Seven years since the only time Niccolò Neri ever spoke to me outside this restaurant.
Seven years since the only night in my life I allowed myself to believe something impossible might happen.
I was nineteen back then. Working two part-time jobs and trying to help my mother keep our tiny apartment afloat after my father disappeared. Life was already difficult enough without adding complicated men into the mix. Especially men like Niccolò Neri.
Because men like him do not remember girls like me.
He’s nearly twice my age. He wears suits that cost more than everything I own combined. He runs an entire borough of New York City, if the rumors are even half true.
A man like that could have any woman he wants. And probably does. Repeatedly. Which is exactly why I forced myself to forget him a long time ago. Or at least tried to.
Besides, he’s mafia. Like hell I’m getting mixed up in that world. It isn’t just my life on the line anymore.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I pull it out quickly and glance at the screen.
A message from my sitter.can’t stay late 2nite after all!!! can u b back by 00?? :prayer_hands:
My stomach sinks.
Midnight. That gives me barely three hours before I need to leave. No way I can wrap it up by then.
I start typing a quick reply.
Then Donald’s voice cuts in beside me.
“Table thirty-four is leaving.”
I look up slowly. “And?”
“And are you going to clean it or what?”
I force a tight smile. “Of course.”
