I rise as well, tucking the folder under my arm. "Consider it done."
"Good." He pauses at the door, looks back at me. "And Luca? If this woman is truly yours, protect her properly. The life we live doesn't leave room for weakness. If our enemies find out about her, she becomes a target. You understand that?"
"I do."
"Then be smart." He opens the door. "Don't let her become your weakness. Make her your strength."
I leave the social club with the folder under my arm and Francesca on my mind.
The job is simple. Max Orlov frequents a bar in Brighton Beach, arrives every night around eleven, stays until closing, always leaves alone. Walks several blocks to his car, parked in the same spot, a black Mercedes with tinted windows.
The kill will be in the parking lot. Quick, clean, a bullet to the back of the head. I'll make it look like a robbery, take his wallet, his watch. The Bratva will know it's a message, but the cops won't.
It's simple.
I've done it a hundred times before.
But as I drive back to my penthouse, all I can think about is the coffee date this afternoon.
Seeing Francesca again.
Watching her try to piece together the truth.
She shows up early.
I'm already at the café, same corner booth as last night, my eyes on the door. When she appears outside the window, pausing like she's deciding whether to come in, something tightens in my chest.
Mine.
She pushes the door open and walks inside, and I stand. Old habits from my father. Respect is shown in the small gestures—standing when a woman enters the room, pulling out her chair, holding the door.
Francesca deserves respect, even if she doesn't realize yet that I've been violating her privacy for months.
"Francesca."
I let her name roll off my tongue, slow and deliberate. Not Frankie. Never Frankie. She's too much, too everything, to be reduced to a nickname.
"Luca." She slides into the booth across from me. "Am I late?"
"You're exactly on time. I was early. I didn't want to keep you waiting."
She glances at her phone, realizes I'm right. I've watched her long enough to know she's always early or on time, a habit from her work where late means someone dies.
I ordered coffee for both of us and have it waiting for her—black for me, oat milk latte with an extra shot for her. I know how she takes it—I've watched her at coffee shops dozens of times, memorized every detail of her routines.
When she takes a sip, I see her realize the coffee I had waiting for her is right.
She doesn't ask how I know. But I can see the question forming behind her eyes, the wheels turning, the pieces slowly clicking into place.
Good.
The conversation flows easily. I ask about her family, her work, her life. She asks about mine, and I tell her carefully edited truths. My parents are dead. I solve problems for people. I'm dangerous, but not to her.
That last part is true, at least.
I'll never hurt her. I'd burn the world down before I let anyone—including myself—cause her pain.
But I will possess her. Own her. Keep her.
