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"I don’t know what you're talking about.”

"What happened to her?"

I set aside my pencil. "This is a professional setting. And you’re being rude."

He smirks, seemingly appreciating my calling him out. He probably finds few others willing to challenge him. Perhaps Gianna. I can't imagine her tolerating any nonsense. But likely no one else. "Perhaps I am overstepping, but something feels distinctly amiss beneath the surface of this situation."

"So, you're determined to tear up the floorboards and scrutinize whatever lies beneath."

"I believe that's what you want," he says perceptively. "Since you arrived, you've appeared poised to confront me about something."

He's right. I've wanted to vent my rage for a long, long time. Four years. Since losing my mother.

"Do you seriously want to hear this?" I demand.

"Yes," he affirms.

I feel pathetic for even wanting to discuss this, as though his listening might somehow matter.

"We were sitting outside a café off Lower Greenville," I begin as I recall that moment. "She, my mom, my vibrant, witty mom, was in a linen blouse she reserved exclusively for cheery days. I had my sketchpad balanced on my knee.

"We had just split a rather pricey cinnamon roll, and I was trying to capture how her left eyebrow always arched higher than the right when feigning attention. Then came the shouting. Then the gunfire."

I watch for any sign of shock on his face, but his expression transforms into an unreadable mask.

"Three shots. Without warning. Without escalation. It wasn't movie violence. It was casual, like flicking a cigarette. A man in a gray blazer ducked behind the espresso cart. Someone collapsed. And my mother simply blinked at me, bewildered. Then she simply dropped her coffee and slumped in her seat. A stray bullet had penetrated her abdomen."

I remain dry-eyed, my face as impassive as Nico's. He's likely wondering whether I'm an undercover cop, an investigative journalist, or if I've hidden a gun among my art supplies.

"They said it was a turf thing. Two factions. One car got boxed in. Someone panicked. She was never a target. They never caught who did it. Too many names. Too many reasons to avoid questions. The cops classified it as 'gang-related'—Dallas's method of sanitizing anything messy that wears a suit."

At the mention of asuit, he flinches. "I deeply regret what happened to your mother."

"You regret it," I echo, my tone conveying just how little his sentiment means to me.

Unbidden, tears slide down my cheeks, my eyes burning, betraying my composure. He notices. It transforms his entire demeanor. He transitions from mobster to compassionate supporter.

He stands protectively, reminiscent of his posture in the restaurant when that stranger nearly knocked me over. It seems instinctive for him... because it's me. Would people consider me irrational if I confessed how a man's stance and movement make me feel cherished?

Swiftly, he crosses the room, gazes down at me, and then, mirroring the restaurant incident, hesitates as if questioning his approach. He recognizes the impossibility of our situation.

"Sienna," he whispers.

"I'm fine. It happened four years ago. But can you comprehend that? The mob operates with impunity, harming whomever they choose."

I wait for his response, some acknowledgment. He looks at me with apparent anguish. Perhaps he wishes to confide in me, but recognizes he can’t.

"There are certain matters that have to remain confidential," he states grimly. "But if you're curious about my employment, we can talk about how boring hedge funds are."

I wipe my cheek, resolving against further tears. "I didn't come here to discuss my mom." Or to listen to lies and deflection. "Would you please sit?"

"Sienna..."

Suddenly, his commanding hands are on my shoulders. When he applies pressure, I momentarily feel owned. A secret I'll never divulge... I want him to keep holding me like this. I feel claimed. Protected. Wrapped in his authority.

But I quickly pull away, raising my hands defensively. He steps forward. My palms press against his shirt. I sense the radiating warmth of his skin, his heart pounding beneath solid muscle. I nearly clench my fingers, dragging my nails across his chest.

I take another step back. He halts.