The restaurant knows me well enough not to ask questions. They just do what I want.
The table is set to my specifications—nothing crowded, nothing fussy, just crisp linens, clean plates, and glassware that looks fancy but effortless. The wine is already chilling, bucket packed, condensation beading on the metal like it’s sweating from anticipation. There’s a private serveron standby, the kind who doesn’t hover and doesn’t listen, who knows when to appear and when to vanish.
Everything is perfect.
It should be easy to focus on anything else, but my mind keeps circling back to Monday. Bellandi Syndicate. Chicago trying to buy its way into our backyard. Northstar in the middle, and Nilsson holding the gate like a locked fist. Roberto’s going to want me sharp, charming, surgical. Caterina’s going to want me disciplined.
I’ll be all of that.
On Monday.
Tonight? There’s nothing for me to do. No moves to make, no call that changes anything, no leverage I can squeeze out of the air in a single evening. If I cancelled this, I’d just be sitting at home, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last twenty-four hours until it made me insane.
And I’m not cancelling.
Even if I know Roberto would disapprove. Even if I can already hear the tone in his voice—Antonio, now is not the time to get distracted.
I couldn’t make myself do it.
Because she’s the kind of distraction that doesn’t feel like distraction at all. She feels like gravity. Like something that grabbed me the second she walked into a room and hasn’t let go since.
Elsa is just too perfect.
Not just the body—though my brain does a quick, appreciative lap around that anyway. Long legs. Those lips. The way she fit around me like she was built for it. For me. The way she tried to look annoyed right before she laughed.
It’s the other thing. The thing I can’t quite pin down.
There’s something different about her, and I can’t get her out of my head. I keep thinking about the way she watched me, like she was measuring me for something. The way she fought for control, even when she was coming apart. The way she looked this morning when she had to leave—practical mouth, dangerous eyes, like she was already negotiating with herself.
I have to know more about her.
Not in the casual way. Not in the what-do-you-do, where-are-you-from small talk way.
In the way that makes my chest tighten with impatience. In the way that has me checking the time more than once, listening for footsteps outside the door, feeling that pull in my gut like I’m bracing for impact all over again.
I’m compelled to spend more time with her.
And damn it, there’s nothing else I can do about the acquisition tonight, so I’m doing the only thing that makes sense.
I’m sitting in a private room, with the wine chilling, the server discreet, the tableperfect—
Waiting for the perfect woman to walk in.
And if she shows up, I already know I’m not going to be able to pretend this is just dinner.
The server slips into the room.
“Sir,” he says quietly, professional to the bone. “Your date has arrived.”
For a second, my body forgets how to move.
Then I’m up, smoothing my jacket like I’m not the man who spent all day counting down the seconds. I straighten my cuffs, adjust my tie by a fraction, and take one last look at the room—at the table, the wine.
Everything is perfect.
My heartbeat does not care.
The server disappears again, and the air thickens in anticipation.
