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CHAPTER THREE

Ava

The restaurant screams old money Chicago, where the silverware is real, and a crystal chandelier throws diamonds of light across white tablecloths. The ma?tre practically bows when Stefano walks in.

His hand hasn't moved from my lower back since we left the club—like he's afraid I'll disappear if he pulls away. I’m grateful that we did return to get my coat before we left. His touch is burning my skin even through the thick fabric, and I have to fight not to lean into it.

Into him.

"The wine list, sir?" The sommelier appears, but Stefano doesn't even glance his way. His eyes haven't left me since we sat down, tracking every movement like a predator studying its prey.

It should make me uncomfortable. Instead, it makes my skin hum with awareness.

He orders something expensive in perfect Italian, and I pretend to study the menu, using it as a shield against the intensity of his stare. But I can feel his gaze like a physical caress, heavy with ten years of hunger.

"You haven't changed," he says softly, voice rough with something that makes heat pool in my stomach. "You’re still beautiful enough to stop a man's heart."

I look up, meeting those dangerous blue eyes. "Everything's changed."

"Not the important things."

He leans forward, invading my space like he has every right to do so. His cologne hits me—expensive and masculine and him .

"You still bite your lip when you're nervous, still tap your fingers when you're planning something, still make me want to lock you away where no one else can see you."

The last part is said so quietly I almost miss it. Almost.

I force my fingers to stay still against the menu. Damn. I'd forgotten he could do this—turn the air electric with just a look, just a word.

"And you're still intense to a fault." I set the menu down, letting some of my old attitude show despite how my pulse is racing. "Tell me, do you stare at all your dancers like you want to devour them, or am I special?"

"You know exactly how special you are, Ava." The way he says my name sounds like a prayer and a curse. "You always have."

The wine arrives before I can respond, and I'm grateful for the interruption. I watch him go through the tasting ritual, his hands moving with precise grace. Every gesture screams controlled power, but there's something else there now—barely leashed hunger. It makes me shiver again.

"To unexpected reunions," he says, raising his glass, his eyes burning into mine.

I clink my glass against his, careful not to let our fingers brush. "To new beginnings."

The wine is excellent, of course. Everything about this evening is excellent, which makes what I have to do even harder. I take another sip, letting the alcohol warm my blood, trying to ignore how he watches my throat as I swallow.

"So," he says, voice dropping to an intimate register, "are we going to talk about why you're really here?"

My heart skips, but I keep my face neutral. "I told you. I need a job."

"In my club?" His eyes pin me in place, possessive enough to make my breath hitch. "In my city? After ten years of nothing?"

"Chicago's a big place." I shrug, aiming for casual despite the electricity crackling between us. "I didn't know it was your club until today."

"Liar." He reaches across the table, trailing one finger down my wrist. The simple touch sends sparks shooting up my arm. "You always were good at that—telling just enough truth to make the lies believable. But your body could never lie to me, could it?"

If he only knew.

I lean forward, letting my coat slip slightly. His eyes darken as they track the movement. "Maybe I just wanted to dance."

"Maybe." His voice rough. "Or maybe fate finally brought you back where you belong. With me."

The possessiveness in his tone should terrify me. Instead, it awakens something primal in me, something that reminds me of how it felt to be his. I reach for my wine glass to steady my hands. "Aren't we all just searching for somewhere to belong?"

His laugh is low, dangerous. "Not anymore." He leans forward too, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. "I found what I was searching for. And this time, I'm not letting you run away."

I meet his gaze across the candlelight, feeling like I'm drowning. Because this—this intensity, this magnetic pull between us—this is exactly what I was afraid of. This is what the Fiori family was counting on.

And God help me, but I'm already falling.

The sommelier brings a second bottle of wine, and I watch Stefano's expression darken slightly as he waves him away. There's a new tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before, like he's bracing himself for something.

"Tell me what happened," I say softly, surprising myself with how much I want to know. "With your family."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment I see a flash of raw pain before it's buried again. "It was quick. Professional." His fingers tighten around his glass. "One night, my father and brothers were at a business meeting. The next morning, Chicago had a new crime family in power."

The clinical way he describes it makes my heart ache. I remember his brothers—Darren with his easy laugh, Antonio with his quick temper. Both of them had treated me kindly, even though I was just the daughter of con artists.

"I was in Thailand when it happened," he continues, his voice dropping even lower. "Living my dream of hostels and adventure, just like you said." His laugh is bitter. "Tomasso called me at four in the morning. By noon, I was on a plane home."

"To take over," I murmur, understanding flooding through me. The wild, free-spirited boy I knew, suddenly chained to a legacy he had never wanted.

"To survive." His eyes meet mine, and the pain in them steals my breath. "To protect what was left of my family. My mother...she hasn't been the same since. And Angela..."

"Your sister?" I remember her as a tiny thing, always trailing after Stefano with worship in her eyes.

"She got sick right after. Leukemia. The doctors say she's in remission now, but keeping her alive wasn’t easy or cheap..." He takes a long sip of wine. "Let's just say I needed resources. Power. The ability to get her the best care money could buy."

My chest feels tight. The Fiori family didn’t mention any of this—his sister's illness, his mother's grief. They just painted him as another cruel don. But looking at him now, I see how the weight of responsibility crushed the free spirit I once knew.

"So you became what your father always wanted," I say, unable to keep the sadness from my voice.

His hand shoots out, catching my wrist again.

"I became what I needed to be." His thumb traces my pulse point, sending shivers down my spine. "What about you, Ava? Did you become what your parents wanted?"

The question hits too close to home. Here I am, running another con, just like they taught me. "My parents are dead," I say flatly.

His grip tightens fractionally. "I know."

When I look up sharply, his eyes are intense, possessive. "Did you think I wasn't keeping tabs on you? That I wasn't looking for you?"

The admission makes my heart race. All these years, while I was running, he was searching. The thought makes my insides melt.

"Why?" I whisper, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"You know why." His other hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "I told you once that I'd follow you to the ends of the earth. Did you think I was lying?"

I can't breathe. Can't think. Not with him looking at me like that, touching me like that. Not with the weight of everything between us pressing down on me.

And definitely not with the guilt of my mission sitting like lead in my stomach.

How can I betray him now, knowing what he's survived, knowing he was only trying to protect his family?

But then I think of Tony, waiting in our dingy motel room, drinking himself into oblivion. My own family needs protection, too.

I just wish it didn't feel like I was selling my soul to do it.

"So, what about you?" Stefano's voice pulls me from my dark thoughts. "What's your dream now? Still planning to change the world, one philosophy book at a time?"

I laugh, and it comes out more genuine than I expected. "Not exactly." I trace the rim of my wineglass, feeling his eyes follow the movement. "Would you believe me if I said Montana?"

"Montana?" His eyebrow arches. "The girl who used to quote Nietzsche wants to be a cowgirl?"

"A ranch owner, actually." I let myself indulge in the fantasy that keeps me going on the darkest nights. "Wide open spaces. Horses. Maybe some cattle. Somewhere so far from Chicago that no one's ever heard the D'Amato name."

His expression shifts, something dark flashing across his face. "Running again?"

"Starting over," I correct, but we both hear the lie. "There's something appealing about simplicity, don't you think? No family obligations, no looking over your shoulder..." I gesture around at the opulent restaurant, at his expensive suit, at everything here that screams power and control. "No complications."

"Complications?" Suddenly, the space between us feels charged, dangerous. "Is that what I am to you?"

My heart hammers against my ribs. "You're the definition of complicated, Stefano."

"And yet, here you are."

"Here I am," I whisper, hating how breathless I sound. The wine must be getting to me, because I add, "Maybe I missed complicated."

The look he gives me is pure heat. "Tell me more about this ranch fantasy of yours." His thumb traces circles on my wrist, making it hard to think. "Paint me a picture."

"A big house," I say, trying to ignore how his touch affects me. "The kind with a wraparound porch and rocking chairs. Somewhere my brother could heal, could become someone new."

"Your brother." His expression shifts again . "Tony, right? He'd be what, sixteen now?"

The fact that he knows this—has kept track of us somehow—makes my stomach flip. "Seventeen. And struggling."

"Like you struggled?" His voice is soft but intent, like he's piecing together a puzzle. "Is that why you're here, Ava? For him?"

If only you knew.

"Everything I do is for him," I admit, and at least that's not a lie. "He's all I have left."

Stefano's hand tightens on my wrist. "That's not true anymore."

His words send heat pooling low in my belly. I need to pull away, to remember why I'm here, to focus on actual my job.

But then he starts talking about making my Montana dreams come true, about how he has connections out west, about how he could help make it happen. And for one dangerous moment, I let myself imagine it: a life where I don't have to run, where Tony is safe, where Stefano is...

No. I can't think like that. I can't let myself believe in fairy tales.

I look around at the glittering restaurant, at the city lights beyond the windows, at the man watching me like I'm something precious he thought he'd lost forever, and I can't help but wonder.

What if there was another way?

The thought is dangerous. Deadly. The Fiori family doesn't take kindly to betrayal.

But neither, I suspect, does Stefano Rega.

The wine has turned everything soft around the edges, but Stefano remains in sharp focus. Maybe that's why I can't stop watching his hands—the way he holds his glass, how his fingers drum lightly against the table when he's thinking. Those hands used to make me feel safe. Now they make me feel...something else entirely.

"You're staring," he says, voice rough with something that makes heat curl in my stomach.

"You're staring back."

His lips curve into that dangerous smile of his. "I've earned the right. Ten years of looking for you..." He takes a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. "I have a lot of catching up to do."

His intense gaze makes me reach for my own glass. "And what do you see?"

"Everything." He leans forward again, close enough that I can smell his cologne. "The mask you wear. The walls you've built. The way you're fighting this thing between us." His finger traces the rim of my glass. "But underneath it all, you're still my Ava."

His Ava. The words sink into my skin.

"You don't know me anymore," I whisper, but even I can hear the uncertainty in my voice.

"No?" He catches my hand as I reach for my wine. "Then why does your pulse jump when I touch you? Why do you keep looking at my mouth? Why haven't you pulled away?"

He's right. I haven't moved my hand from his grip. Can't seem to remember why I should.

"This is a bad idea." But I'm already leaning closer.

"You were always my favorite bad idea." His thumb strokes my wrist, proving his point. "Do you remember that summer, Ava? The garden? The promises?"

God, yes. I remember everything. The way he kissed me. The wild dreams we shared. The look in his eyes when I told him to run from my family.

It’s the same look he's giving me now.

"We were kids," I manage, though my voice shakes.

"Were we?" His other hand comes up to brush my cheek, and I can't help leaning into the touch. "Because I remember knowing exactly what I wanted…who I wanted."

The wine, the memories, his touch—it's all too much. I'm supposed to be gathering intel, maintaining distance. Instead, I'm drowning in him.

"Stefano..."

"Say it again," he whispers. "My name. Say it."

"We shouldn't?—"

"Say it."

" Stefano ."

He makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat spiraling through me. "Come home with me."

Four simple words that could destroy everything. My mission. My brother's safety. My heart.

But as I look into his eyes, burning with ten years of hunger, I realize I've already lost this battle.

Maybe I lost it the moment I walked into his club.

I should say no. Should remember why I'm here. Should think about the consequences.

Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Yes."

His smile is pure sin, and I know I'm in trouble.

Delicious trouble.

Stefano doesn't wait for the check. He just pulls out a black card and hands it to the hovering waiter without taking his eyes off me. His stare makes my skin feel too tight, too hot.

"Having second thoughts?" His voice is low, knowing.

I should be. God, I should be running as fast and far as I can. Instead, I watch his hands as he signs the receipt, remembering how they felt on my skin all those years ago. Wondering if they'll feel the same now.

"No thoughts at all," I murmur, and it's almost true. The wine has turned everything hazy except him. He's in crystal clear focus—the way his jaw clenches when I shift in my seat, how his eyes track every movement like he's memorizing me.

He stands, offering his hand. Such a gentlemanly gesture, but there's nothing gentle about the look in his eyes.

I place my hand in his, and the contact sends another shock through my body. His fingers close around mine possessively, thumb brushing over my knuckles.

"Still the Ava who jumps without looking?" he asks as we walk through the restaurant. His hand has found its way to my lower back again.

"Still the Stefano who thinks he can catch me?" I counter, but my voice comes out breathier than intended.

His laugh is dark, promising. "Oh, tesoro ." He leans close, lips brushing my ear. "I already have."

The cool night air hits us as we step outside, but I barely notice. Everything is Stefano—his hand on my back, his cologne in my lungs, his presence overwhelming my senses.

His car pulls up, sleek and black and expensive. Of course it is. Everything about him screams power and money now. He’s so different from the wild boy I knew.

But as he opens the door for me, his fingers brush my hip, and that touch is exactly the same. It still sets my blood on fire. Still makes me want things I shouldn't.

I should think about my mission. About Tony. About all the reasons this is the worst possible idea.

As we pull away from the curb, his hand finds my thigh. Heat courses through me. It should feel like a trap closing.

Instead, it feels like falling.

I'm starting to forget why I should care. What I'm letting myself walk into. What I'm choosing, despite every reason not to.

Forgive me, Tony, I think as Stefano's hand tightens on my thigh. I'll find another way to save us both.

But as we drive through the glittering Chicago night, I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince anymore. Right now, with wine in my blood and Stefano's touch burning through me, saving anyone feels like a distant concern.

Right now, there's only this.

Only him.