Page 360 of Rosetti Family New York

Seven thirty-two PM. She's consistent, I'll give her that. Breakfast at six-thirty, work by eight, dinner at eight PM sharp. Isabella Callahan runs her life like a Swiss watch. Other women have made me wait for hours, playing games with timing just to test their power. But not Isabella. Predictable. Precise. Exactly what I need.

The coin tumbles over my knuckles in a steady rhythm, a habit that surfaces when I'm about to do something particularly dangerous. Tonight definitely qualifies. Dom's voice echoes in my head: business first, complications later. But the truth is, complications started the moment I saw her photograph. The dreams have only gotten more vivid, more explicit, more impossible to ignore.

The elevator indicator stops on twelve. Her floor.

I straighten my black jacket and check my reflection in the SUV's tinted window. Auburn hair slightly messy, deliberately so. White button-down open at the collar, no tie. The look says casual confidence, a man comfortable in his skin. A man who gets what he wants without trying too hard.

Golden hour light bathes the street in warm honey tones, the July evening still holding the day's heat. Office workers stream past in their end-of-day exodus, but my attention stays fixed on the building's entrance. A doorman in a navy uniform holds the door for residents, offering polite nods and forgettable smiles. No security cameras in the lobby that I can see. No guards, no protocols. She really does live like someone who's never made enemies.

The doors open and Isabella emerges into the evening light, clearly heading out for her nightly dinner routine.

She's more stunning in person than in any photograph. Honey-blonde hair catches the light as she walks, and her cream blouse moves like liquid silk against her skin. Navy trousers hug curves that make my blood run hot, and those heels add just enough height to put her mouth at the right level for kissing. For other things.

She pauses on the sidewalk, reaching into her purse for something. Phone, probably. Always connected, always performing for someone else's expectations. I've watched enough surveillance footage to know she carries herself like a woman who learned early that being flawless is the only acceptable option.

Time to shatter that flawless facade.

I push off from the SUV and approach with the easy stride of a man who belongs everywhere he goes. She glances up at my movement, those emerald green eyes taking in my face with cautious curiosity.

"Isabella Callahan, right?" I let my trademark dimpled grin surface, the one that's opened more doors and more legs than I care to count. "Small world."

She freezes mid-step, and I watch her run through possibilities. Do we know each other? Should she recognize me? The uncertainty makes her even more beautiful, vulnerability bleeding through her composed mask.

"Do I know you?" Her voice is cultured, careful. Exactly what I expected from someone who spends her days among priceless art and dangerous men.

"Not yet." I slip the coin into my pocket, giving her the full force of my attention. "But I've been dying to fix that. Matteo Rosetti."

Recognition flickers in her eyes. Not my face, but the name. Everyone in New York knows the Rosetti name, even the ones who pretend they don't. Especially the ones who pretend they don't.

"I was just heading out for dinner," I continue, nodding toward the SUV. "Amazing little place in SoHo. You always walk to dinner alone in heels like that?"

She glances down at her shoes, then back at my face. Her pupils are slightly dilated, whether from the fading light or something else entirely. "I prefer to walk."

"Smart choice. Though after a full day on your feet at work, I'd think you'd want to give those heels a rest. The Met, right? European Decorative Arts." I let that information hang between us, proof that I know more about her than a stranger should. "Must be fascinating, working with all those beautiful, untouchable things."

Her lips part slightly at the emphasis on untouchable, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. Good. She's feeling it too, this electric current that's been building since I first saw her photograph.

"How do you know where I work?"

"Same way I know you take your coffee black and prefer to walk rather than call a car." I step closer, close enough to catch her scent. Something clean and expensive that makes me want to bury my face in her neck. "I make it my business to know beautiful women."

She takes a half-step back, but doesn't run. Smart or naive, I can't tell yet.

"I should get going," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

"Actually, I was hoping I could give you a ride." I gesture toward the SUV again, where my driver sits silent behind tinted glass. "I've got dinner reservations in twenty minutes, and I'd hate to eat alone. Plus, I'd hate to leave a beautiful woman walking after dark."

It's barely seven-thirty, still full daylight, and Tribeca is hardly dangerous. But the invitation is clear enough, wrapped in chivalry that women like Isabella understand, even when they know better.

"That's very kind, but I don't really know you."

"Fair point." I pull out my phone, fingers moving across the screen. "There. I just texted you my details. Name, phone number, even my LinkedIn profile if you're the corporate type. Now you know exactly who I am."

Her phone buzzes in her hand, and she glances down at the message. I watch her calculate risks and probabilities, her analytical mind working through the angles. Museum curator. Used to evaluating authenticity, detecting forgeries. But she's also a woman who's spent her life being protected, sheltered from real danger.

"I promise I'm not a serial killer," I add with a self-deprecating laugh. "Just a guy who hates eating alone and was lucky enough to run into the most beautiful woman in Tribeca."

The compliment rolls off my tongue easily, but my reaction to her is absolutely real. Standing this close, I can see the gold flecks in her green eyes, the way her pulse flutters at the base of her throat. She smells like expensive perfume and something else, something that makes my mouth water and my hands itch to touch.