I notice the book on her coffee table is turned. I left it cover-up last time I was here, a small test to see if she'd notice. She did. Put it back spine-out, just how she keeps it.
The chair I sat in while she was at work, pulled out just slightly from the table. The coffee I ordered without asking how she takes it. The details I know about her schedule, her commute.
She's starting to put the pieces together. Good.
I want her to understand. Want her to see that I notice everything, that there's nowhere she can go that I won't find her, that she's been mine since the moment she put her hands on me in that ER and chose to save me instead of report me.
I pull out my phone—not my personal cell, the burner I keep for her—and swipe through the photos. Hundreds of them. I take another photo.
The camera makes no sound. The phone goes down and I watch Francesca for any sign she heard. Nothing. Her breathing stays deep and even, undisturbed.
I could wake her right now. Tell her everything. Show her the photos, explain that I've been watching her for months, that I staged the mugging to get close to her, that I've been in her apartment more times than she knows.
The truth would shatter her.
And then I'd put the pieces back together the way I want them.
I'm not sure which will serve me better—telling her the truth or letting her figure it out for herself. That uncertainty is the only thing keeping me from reaching out and putting my hand over her mouth to muffle the scream I know will come first.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I just need to be near her. To make sure she's safe. To remind myself why I'm doing this.
She's so vulnerable here. Anyone could pick her locks the way I did. Anyone could stand in this doorway and watch her sleep. Anyone could hurt her.
The thought makes my jaw clench, my hands curl into fists.
No one touches what's mine.
I've already put the word out through my contacts. Francesca Mancini is under my protection. Anyone who so much as looks at her wrong will answer to me. The Outfit knows. The other families will know soon enough.
She doesn't need to know the target I've painted on her back by claiming her. She just needs to trust that I'll handle it.
And I will.
I check my watch again. It’s late. I should leave, get a few hours of sleep before the day ahead catches up with me. But I allow myself one more minute.
One more minute of watching her sleep, of breathing the same air, of standing in her space and imagining what it will be like when she finally accepts that this is where I belong.
In her life. In her bed. In her.
Before I met her for coffee, the day started the way most mornings do—with violence on the horizon.
The Santoro Social Club sits on Mulberry Street in Little Italy, tucked between a bakery and a restaurant that's been in the same family for generations. The front is nondescript—dark windows, a simple door, a brass plaque that says "Members Only" in discreet letters.
Inside, it's old world. Dark wood paneling, leather chairs, the smell of espresso and cigars. A place where business is conducted in quiet voices, where respect is currency, and where the rules are simple: loyalty above all else.
I arrive on time. Early shows eagerness, late shows disrespect. On time shows you understand your place in the hierarchy.
Don Marco is already seated in the back room, the one reserved for private meetings. He's in his sixties, silver hair combed back, a face that's seen decades of violence and come out the other side still in control. He built the Santoro Outfit from his father's small operation into one of the five families that run New York. He's smart, ruthless when he needs to be, and he's never forgotten that my father died in his service.
That's why I'm still here. That's why he tolerates my methods, my reputation, my tendency to operate outside the usual chain of command.
He owes my father.
And I've more than earned my place.
"Luca." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."
