Page 20 of Luca

I spotted the knife the moment she pulled it, saw how she was holding it, knew she was more scared than dangerous. But Sofia wouldn't know any of that. And I didn’t expect her to drop it.

"I didn't see a knife," I lie. “I told you that before.”

"Huh." He drains his espresso. "Because Tony says it was pretty obvious. Says any smart person would have backed off when they saw it."

"I’m sure he’s right. Maybe I'm not that smart because I didn’t notice it."

"Or maybe you're a lot smarter than you're letting on."

Paolo returns before I can respond, leading us to a small trattoria with outdoor seating. He chooses a table with clear sight lines and no blind spots, positioning himself and Tony at nearby tables like they're just having lunch too.

Luca orders wine without consulting me. Something expensive, probably. A brand of wine Sofia would appreciate. When I’d really love a beer.

When it arrives, I take a larger gulp than I should. The alcohol burns going down, but now I really do need something to steady my nerves.

"Better?" Luca asks.

"Getting there."

"Good. Because I've got more questions."

Of course he does.

"Fire away," I say, trying to sound casual.

“Why were you taking self-defense classes?”

“I was scared and I hoped they would give me confidence.”

“Did they?”

“What do you think?”

“Maybe they did.” He sets his cup down. His hand covers mine on the table, heavy and warm, pinning it there. Not affectionate. Possessive. “Or maybe you’re just not telling me everything.”

If I were smart, I’d become my sister now. Flustered, apologetic. Instead, the part of me that ran down a pink-haired thief wants to show him how tough I am.

“I got my phone back,” I say. “And no one was hurt. I’d call that a win all the way around.”

“You could’ve gotten hurt,” he says. “That bothers me more than the phone.”

The words land where they’re supposed to. He doesn’t take his hand off mine. The pad of his thumb presses once into the inside of my wrist like he’s measuring the speed of my lies.

“When we leave the restaurant, stay with me,” he says, quiet enough that it’s just for us. “Don’t make me chase you. You don’t run again, not in a crowd, not in front of my men. If you want something handled, you tell me and it will be.”

I could fight him. I could sayno one owns me.But the way he’s looking at me, as if last night is still on his tongue and he’s not done with me short-circuits my better judgment.

“Fine,” I say, equally quiet. “But if someone grabs my ass, I’m breaking their fingers.”

A beat then the edge of his mouth does that fractional curve again. “We’ll make exceptions for broken fingers. As long as that doesn’t include mine.”

Chapter 9: Luca

I'm sitting in my study at three in the morning, staring at a glass of whiskey I haven't touched. When we arrived back at the villa, I was quickly called away on business. When I returned thirty minutes ago, she was already sound asleep in our bed.

So here I sit, all alone in the dark, thinking about my new wife.

Not in a romantic way. In a tactical way.