Hers is lived-in, warm, cluttered with the debris of an actual life. There are books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, dishes in the sink. Evidence of a person who exists in the space, who makes it theirs.
My penthouse is nothing more than a glorified hotel room. A beautiful, elegant expensive one, but nothing that betrays who I am.
I pour myself two fingers of scotch and stand at the window, looking out at the city. Back at her apartment, she's sleeping. Dreaming. Maybe dreaming of me.
I drink the scotch in one swallow, let the burn ground me, then set the glass down and move to my desk.
I open the folder Don Marco gave me at the meeting, studying Max Orlov's face again, memorizing his routines, planning the approach.
Brighton Beach. The bar closes at two. He parks several blocks away, walks alone, and never varies his route.
He's predictable. Fatal mistake.
I'll take him down in Bratva territory. Clean, efficient, a message the Bratva can't ignore.
But first, I need to arrange dinner with Francesca.
I pull out my phone—my real one this time—and scroll to her number. I've had it for months, pulled from hospital records the day after she treated me. I've never used it, never texted or called, just kept it like a talisman, a connection to her that she doesn't know exists.
Until now.
I type out a message:
Dinner tonight. 8:30. I'll pick you up.
The hour is early, but she responds:
Where are we going?
I answer:
You'll see. Wear the black dress.
I stare at the screen and warmth spreads through my body. Something possessive, satisfied.
She said yes.
She's going to dinner with me. Another date, another step closer to the moment when I tell her everything, when I show her the evidence of my obsession, and she has to decide whether to run or stay.
I already know which one she'll choose.
She saved me once. She'll save me again.
From myself, if necessary.
I set the phone down and close the folder, then walk back to the window. The city spreads out below me, millions of people living their lives, unaware that tonight, Max Orlov will die. Unaware that Francesca Mancini is already claimed, whether she accepts it yet or not.
Soon, she’ll learn what that means.
Soon, she’ll stop running from what she already knows.
I finish the scotch and head to grab a little sleep. In a few hours, I'll kill a man. And then I'll take Francesca to dinner.
Just another day.
6
FRANCESCA
