I glance back and see him. A man in a dark hoodie, hands in his pockets, walking too close behind me. He could be anyone. He could be nothing.
Except he's looking right at me, and he's closing the distance.
My breath catches. I face forward and walk faster, my heart hammering against my ribs. The intersection is right there. I just need to make it to the light, to the people, to safety.
The footsteps speed up behind me.
I'm almost running now, and I know it's stupid, know it makes me look like prey, but I can't stop the fear crawling up my throat. Vincent died when a bullet found him in a bodega before he even knew to run.
I know how fast everything can go wrong. How quickly a normal night can turn into the worst night of your life.
I'm almost to the intersection when the footsteps break into a run behind me.
I start to turn, my hand already reaching into my bag for my keys, when someone grabs my purse and yanks hard enough to spin me around.
A shout cuts through the dark. Then hands lock onto me, jerking me backward.
3
LUCA
Iwatch Francesca cut through the Village, taking the shortcut she always takes when she's exhausted. She's been on her feet all day at Metropolitan Medical Center, and it shows in the way she moves—shoulders hunched forward, head down, that slight hitch in her step that means her feet are killing her.
I've watched her walk home more times than I can count.
I stay far enough back that she won't spot me, close enough to see every detail. The winter dark helps. So does the fact that I'm very good at being invisible when I need to be. It's part of the job—you don't survive fifteen years as an enforcer for the Outfit by being sloppy.
She glances over her shoulder twice in the past block. My Francesca is not just book smart, she's street smart. She feels me watching even when she can't see me. Her instincts are good, screaming at her that something's wrong. She just doesn't trust them yet.
Months of planning, of watching, of learning every detail of her life, and it all comes down to the next five minutes. I've orchestrated this carefully—the associate I hired, the timing, the location. Café Reggio is still open, warm and safe, just closeenough that I can walk her there after I save her. After she realizes she needs me.
My phone buzzes. The associate—Paulie, low-level muscle who owes me a favor and knows better than to ask questions—is in position, waiting for my signal. Cash for a simple job: grab her purse, make it look real, run when I intervene. He doesn't know who she is, doesn't know this is anything more than a staged mugging for insurance fraud or some shit. He doesn't need to know.
I text back:
Go.
Francesca is almost to the intersection when Paulie makes his move. He comes at her fast, hand reaching for her bag.
She fights back.
I didn't expect that. Most people freeze or scream. My woman spins toward him, yanks her bag away, and I see her other hand go into her purse—going for a weapon. Keys, maybe, or that small Maglite I've seen her pull out when she's digging for something at night.
Cazzo.She's magnificent.
Paulie grabs her bag strap and pulls. She doesn't let go. They struggle for a second, and real fear flashes across her face, but she's not giving up, not running. She's standing her ground against a guy who outweighs her by a lot, and something fierce and possessive roars to life in my chest.
Mine. That's my woman. That's my Francesca, fighting like hell even when she's terrified.
Time to end this.
I move.
Paulie sees me coming and his eyes go wide—he knows who I am, knows what I do, knows he's about to get hurt even thoughthis was the plan. Good. He needs to sell it, needs to make it look real.
"Hey!" I shout, and then I'm on them.
I grab Francesca first—my hands lock onto her shoulders and I yank her backward, behind me, away from Paulie. She gasps, stumbles, but I've already released her and turned on him. I put myself between this piece of shit and my woman, even though I'm the one who sent him here in the first place.
