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“Because I’m not sure of the answer myself,” he admitted, his honesty surprising even him. The guards in the front seat shifted, but he ignored them. “Let’s discuss it over dinner, okay?”

She turned away, but not before he caught the flash of impatience. He studied her profile in the dim light, and something inside him clenched. She wasn’t good at hiding her feelings, which he usually appreciated. But tonight, there was a shadow over her expression, and he hated that he’d put it there.

The silence in the SUV grew oppressive. He wanted to reach out, to thread his fingers through hers, to assure her that she was safe. But that would be a lie. He was protecting her, yes—but only because she was his bait.

So instead, he reached for the one truth he could offer.

“Detroit was built up during the Gilded Age,” he began, his eyes flicking to the skyline. “Art Deco everywhere. The designs were meant to project power through height, progress, and ambition.” His voice steadied as he spoke, falling into the comfort of knowledge. “The interiors are more ornate than the exteriors, but if you catch the right angle, you’ll see the classical Greek need for balance worked into the art deco designs. A reminder that even through progress, we aren’t meant to abandon our roots.”

He kept talking, pointing out specific buildings, naming the architects, explaining how the similarities in style still revealed personal touches, how each architect’s ego and imagination had shaped the skyline. He described how the city’s booms and busts had etched themselves into its architecture, every downturn visible in stripped-back corners, every rise marked with ever more flamboyant detail.

Eventually, he slowed, convinced she was only humoring him. Then she surprised him.

“Did you grow up admiring these buildings?” she asked softly. “Or did someone point them out, and that’s what caught your attention?”

The driver pulled up to the restaurant before he could answer, and Paulo stayed silent as they went inside. He didn’t speak until they were seated at a quiet corner table beside a bubbling water feature, the candlelight catching in her dark curls.

“I grew up wanting to be an architect,” he admitted finally. “My father and I used to build with whatever we could find—erector sets, Lincoln Logs, Legos, cardboard boxes. The forts we made out of pillows, sheets, and rope in the living room were…epic.”

Her smile was immediate and genuine. “Tell me about them.”

For a moment, he could only stare at her, startled by the open interest in her eyes. Not polite curiosity, not the empty nodding he was used to from women. She wanted to know him. So he told her.

He told her about the forts, about the way his father’s eyes lit up with each new design. About architects he admired, their quirks, their triumphs and disasters. She laughed at the stories of foolish mistakes that led to unexpected innovations. And she kept asking questions, one after another, her eagerness drawing more from him than he’d intended to give.

They ordered food, but barely noticed it when it arrived. Beer flowed, chips and salsa were consumed, and spicy Tex-Mex devoured, but the real feast was the conversation.

Madelaine told him about standing beneath the soaring ceilings of Notre Dame, before the fire, and then again after, feeling a mixture of grief and awe. He countered with his memory of staring up at Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia, a masterpiece still unfinished more than a century after the first stone was laid. They compared impressions, challenged each other’s thoughts, leaned in until the rest of the restaurant blurred away.

By the time their plates were cleared, neither could remember what they had eaten. Only that they had shared it.

“Would you like to walk along the river?” he asked.

Her blue eyes lit with a spark that made his chest tighten. “Will you tell me more about the design of the city?” she asked eagerly.

He couldn’t stop his grin. “Of course.”

He tossed several hundred dollars on the table as they stood, the money paying for more than food, it paid for silence. The waiter’s subtle nod confirmed he understood.

Paulo placed his hand lightly at the small of Madelaine’s back as they walked out together, the gesture protective, possessive. She leaned into it without hesitation.

And for the first time in years, Paulo realized he wasn’t just explaining architecture. He was letting someone glimpse the foundation of who he really was.

Chapter 19

Madelaine walked beside the man who had just revealed a hidden facet of himself. Her heart thudded with questions, though she hesitated to voice them. “Why did you…?” She faltered, not wanting to offend the man who’d been so unexpectedly generous to her.

“Ask me anything,” he encouraged, his deep voice steady but quiet, as if he’d already braced for the weight of her curiosity.

She stopped, leaning against the river’s metal railing, her hands curling around the cool steel. City lights shimmered off of the water, gold ripples stretching toward the horizon. “Why didn’t you go to school for architecture?” she asked at last, the question that had burned within her all evening.

“You mean,” he said slowly, turning toward her, “why did I end up building an organized crime empire instead of following what I loved?”

Her cheeks warmed. She glanced down, then back out at the waves glittering in the night. “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s exactly what I meant. You light up when you talk about buildings. So, why not that? Why…this?”

Paulo shifted his stance, his broad shoulders casting her in shadow. Madelaine leaned back against the railing, her elbows resting on the edge. She didn’t realize how the position made her chest rise, or how his eyes flicked there before returning to her face. She thought he would refuse to answer.

When he stayed silent, she started to push off the railing. “I’m sorry,” she murmured quickly. “It’s not my business. You’ve already done more for me than I deserve. This is your life, your personal—”