The second we step inside, the noise shifts.
A ripple. Heads turn. Conversations dip, then surge back up—frantic, hushed. Eyes track us like radar.
The weight hits instantly. Dozens of gazes sliding over me, cataloging, judging.
There she is. The girl standing by the wreckage.
My spine tightens. Instinct snaps me into posture—shoulders back, chin lifted, face composed.
Strategic partner, I remind myself.
Gio moves closer. His arm brushes mine with every step, close enough to read the way he intends it to read. He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t slink toward a corner booth. He walks us toward the bar like he owns the mortgage.
“Rossi!”
The shout comes from a front table. Dante. He’s standing, beer in hand, a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Beside him, Adrian, Declan, and Cole are already watching—expressions neutral, alert.
“Look who decided to join the living,” Dante says.
“Couldn’t stay away,” Gio replies dryly. “You know how I love the ambiance.”
He pulls out a stool for me.
For me.
I sit. Gio takes the seat beside me, close enough to box me in.
The positioning is deliberate. Possession without words. His thigh presses against mine, the solid weight of his shoulder anchoring me. It’s grounding.
It’s also infuriating.
“You want the usual?” Adrian asks Gio.
“Heineken,” Gio says.
Then he turns to me. “You?”
“Water,” I say.
“Chardonnay,” Gio corrects, already looking at Adrian. “Get the bottle.”
I stiffen. “I said water.”
“You’re at a bar, Zoë,” he says, still scanning the room. “Drink like it.”
“We walked here,” I snap. “I need a clear head.”
“I’ll make sure you get home.”
I turn toward him, ready to snap back for dictating my intake, but he’s already looking away—jaw tight, eyes tracking movement.
He’s here to wage war.
“Rough day?” Declan asks. He’s looking at Gio, but the question lands on me too.
“Rumors are getting creative,” Gio says. “You see the Whisperer post?”
“Hard to miss,” Declan replies.
