Page 8 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

It was time to make our "coincidental" second meeting.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk just as Grace was crossing the street toward the coffee shop. The timing was precise, calculated to the second. She was looking down at her phone, not paying attention to her surroundings.

A mistake.

We collided—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to startle. Her phone clattered to the pavement.

"I'm so sorry," I said, steadying her with a hand on her elbow, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her blouse. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

She looked up, an apology already forming on her lips, only to freeze when she recognized me. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating slightly—fear or excitement, it was hard to tell. Perhaps both.

"You," she breathed, the single word carrying a weight of recognition and wariness.

I smiled, bending to retrieve her phone from the ground. "We seem destined to keep running into each other, Ms. O'Sullivan."

She took the phone from my outstretched hand, careful not to let our fingers touch. "Is it destiny, or are you following me?"

Direct. Unafraid. Challenging.

God, she was perfect.

"A fortunate coincidence," I replied, gesturing to The Crimson Room behind me. "I was having a drink after a meeting."

She didn't believe me. I could see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. But she couldn't prove otherwise, and social conditioning made it difficult for her to directly accuse a stranger of stalking.

"Well, thank you for picking up my phone," she said, taking a step back. "If you'll excuse me?—"

"Let me buy you a coffee," I interrupted, nodding toward the shop. "To apologize for nearly knocking you over."

She hesitated, conflict playing across her face. Curiosity warring with caution. The smart choice would be to walk away. To run.

But Grace O'Sullivan wasn't just smart. She was curious. And curiosity is such a useful weakness to exploit.

"I don't even know your name," she said finally, a small concession that told me she was considering it.

"Rafe," I offered, extending my hand. "Rafe Conti."

I watched her process the name, searching her memory for any recognition. The O'Sullivans and the Contis had a long, complicated history, but we operated in different cities, different spheres. It was possible she'd never heard of my family.

But the slight widening of her eyes told me otherwise. She knew exactly who the Contis were.

"Conti," she repeated, her voice carefully neutral as she ignored my outstretched hand. "As in the New York Contis?"

"Originally," I confirmed, lowering my hand without offense. "Though we've expanded our... interests in recent years."

"I see." Her posture shifted subtly, becoming more guarded. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline your offer, Mr. Conti. I have a lot of studying to do."

I nodded, respecting her decision while having no intention of honoring it. "Another time, perhaps."

She took another step back, clutching her phone like a lifeline. "I should go."

"Of course." I smiled, the expression calculated to appear non-threatening. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Grace."

The use of her first name was deliberate—a reminder that I knew her, that I'd been thinking about her. That I'd remembered every detail of our brief encounter.

She didn't respond, just turned and walked quickly toward the coffee shop, her posture rigid with tension.

I watched her go, savoring the moment. She was afraid, yes—but she was also intrigued. I'd seen it in her eyes, in the way she'd lingered despite her better judgment.

Fear and fascination. The perfect combination.

I returned to The Crimson Room, taking a seat at the bar where I could see through the window to the coffee shop across the street. Grace was at the counter, ordering her usual black coffee, her movements slightly jerky with residual adrenaline.

She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the street outside, looking for me. When she couldn't see me, her shoulders relaxed slightly.

False security. The most dangerous kind.

I sipped my whiskey, watching as she took her coffee to the small table by the window. She pulled out her laptop, attempting to focus on her work, but her eyes kept drifting to the street, searching.

For me.

The realization sent a surge of satisfaction through me. I was already in her head. Already disrupting her carefully ordered world.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

But it was a beginning.

My phone buzzed again. Luca. Again. This time I answered.

"What?" I kept my voice low, my eyes never leaving Grace.

"We have a problem," Luca said, his tone tense. "The Irish are making moves at the docks. Three of our shipments have been redirected."

Business. Always business.

"Handle it," I replied, watching as Grace tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I'm in the middle of something."

"Rafe, this isn't something I can just?—"

"I said handle it." My voice hardened, leaving no room for argument. "I'll be back at the estate in two hours."

I ended the call before he could respond, slipping the phone back into my pocket. The family business was important, yes. The war with the O'Sullivans was important.

But this—watching Grace, planning our next encounter, imagining the moment when she would finally understand that she belonged to me—this was vital.

Across the street, Grace closed her laptop and gathered her things, preparing to leave earlier than her usual schedule. My presence had disrupted her routine. Good.

I finished my whiskey and stood, leaving another generous tip. As I stepped outside, I caught her eye through the window of the coffee shop. She froze, coffee cup halfway to her lips, her gaze locked with mine across the distance.

I smiled and raised my hand in a small salute before turning and walking away. Let her wonder. Let her worry. Let her think about me when she should be thinking about her studies, her family, her carefully constructed future.

Let her feel what it's like to be hunted.

Because the hunt had only just begun.