The irony isn't lost on me.
Paulie takes a swing—good, he's selling it—and I block it easily, grab his wrist, and twist. The bones crack under my grip, sharp and clean. He screams, drops to his knees, and I could end this now, could put him on the ground in seconds and walk away.
But Francesca is watching.
So I make it look good, make it look like I'm fighting to protect her. I drive my knee into Paulie's gut and he goes down hard, gasping. I add another hit to the ribs for good measure. He curls up on the sidewalk, cradling his broken wrist, and I step over him like the trash he is.
Then I turn to Francesca.
She's backed up against the building, her bag clutched to her chest, eyes wide. She's shaking, terrified, and she's looking at me like I'm either her savior or another threat, and she can't decide which.
"Are you hurt?" My first words to her in months, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
She shakes her head but doesn't speak. She just stares at me with those beautiful dark eyes, and her brain is working, trying to process what just happened, trying to decide if she's safe now or in more danger.
Smart girl. The correct answer is both.
"Did he hurt you?" I ask again, softer this time. I need her to speak, need to hear her voice directed at me instead of just overheard from a distance.
"N-no." Her voice is shaky, breathless. "I'm okay."
She's not okay. She's in shock—the way she grips her bag, the way her whole body locks up tight, the way she can't quite catch her breath tells me everything. This is the adrenaline crash, the moment when your body realizes you were in danger and decides to fall apart.
I've seen it before. Usually on people I've hurt.
Never on someone I'd kill for.
Behind me, Paulie is groaning on the ground. I ignore him. He'll crawl away in a minute, get his wrist set, and collect his money. He did his job. Now I need to do mine.
"Come on." I reach for her arm, gentle, careful not to spook her. "Let's get you somewhere safe."
She lets me guide her, doesn't pull away when my hand touches her elbow, and that simple compliance settles something dark and satisfied deep in my gut. She trusts me—scared and shaking, but trusting me to lead her away from danger I orchestrated.
Perfect.
Café Reggio is half a block away, light spilling onto the sidewalk. I can see people inside through the windows—enough witnesses that she'll feel safe, not so many that we can't talk. I hold the door open for her, and she steps inside like she's on autopilot.
The place smells like coffee and cigarettes and old wood. It's been here forever, one of those Village institutions that tourists flock to and locals tolerate. I've never been inside before, but Francesca came here with a friend weeks ago, sat in the corner booth for an hour. I watched from across the street, memorizingwhich seat she chose, how she tucked her hair behind her left ear while she talked.
I guide her to that same corner booth now, and she slides in without question. She's still clutching her bag, still breathing too fast, still looking at me like she can't quite figure out what's happening.
I sit across from her and wait.
The waitress comes over—an older woman with a bored expression, probably been working here since the eighties. "What can I get you?"
"Tea," I say, looking at Francesca. "Chamomile, if you have it. And water."
The waitress nods and walks away, and Francesca finally seems to snap back to herself.
"I didn't—" She stops, swallows. "I didn't ask for tea."
"You're in shock," I say simply. "Tea helps."
She stares at me. "How did you know I was in shock?"
Because I've put enough people in shock to recognize the signs. Because I know exactly what the adrenaline crash looks like, how the shaking starts in the hands and spreads, how the mind goes fuzzy and slow. Because I've been trained to read people, to see their weaknesses, to know when they're about to break.
I don't say any of that.
