25. Raiden
Chapter 25
Raiden
I t’s just before eight in the evening, and the sky over Manhattan glows a dusky orange. I pull my bike into a half-empty lot behind Nico’s, a small Italian bistro I picked out after a bit of asking around. It’s off the main drag, next door to an island-themed bar and the best Chinese restaurant in town. There’s a neon sign in the window—a simple script reading Nico’s Little Italy . The place looks warm, and I can smell garlic and rosemary from here.
I kill the engine and check my reflection in the side mirror. I’m not exactly dressed up—jeans, boots, and a fresh white shirt that I hope passes for something more than my usual clubhouse attire. My hair’s combed back, my stubble trimmed down. It’s not a suit, but it’ll have to do.
I walk around to the front of the restaurant, adjusting my jacket and feeling uncharacteristically nervous. My heart kicks up a notch as I spot Lucrezia across the street, leaning against the lamppost. She’s wearing a simple black dress that hugs her figure just right and a jacket draped loosely over her shoulders. She’s not overly fancy, but there’s a quiet confidence about her that makes my pulse thrum.
She notices me approaching and lifts an eyebrow, a half-smile playing on her dark red lips. “You showed up. I half expected you to claim an emergency at the clubhouse when you left earlier.” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice that makes my stomach do a strange little flip.
I smirk, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting. “I said I’d take you out, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word, princess.” The nickname rolls off my tongue easier than it should.
She snorts softly, pushing off the lamppost and stepping closer.
I let my gaze run over her just a fraction longer than I should, taking in the way the streetlight catches the silver pendant at her throat. “Lucrezia,” I say slowly, savoring the syllables like they’re made of honey. “You look—” I hesitate, searching for a word that doesn’t sound corny. “Good.” I wince internally at how inadequate the word sounds.
Before she can say anything else, I gesture toward the bistro’s door. The glass reflects our figures like a warped mirror—her poised and sharp in that perfectly tailored dress, me taller and broader but feeling strangely lighter than I have in weeks. My hand hovers near the small of her back, not quite touching. “Let’s head in,” I say, reaching for the brass handle.
We step inside, and the interior of Nico’s is all warm light, soft laughter, and low chatter from a handful of couples scattered around the restaurant. The décor is simple: rustic wood tables, candles flickering in jars, and red-checkered napkins that should feel cliché but somehow feel charming instead.
A hostess, a woman in her early twenties with kind eyes and dark hair pulled into a neat bun, greets us with a warm, practiced smile. Her black apron is crisp and spotless against her white shirt. “Did you have a reservation?” she asks, already reaching for a pair of leather-bound menus.
I glance at Lucrezia, who raises an eyebrow like she’s daring me to try something clever. I smirk, deciding to play it smooth. “No reservation, but when I called earlier, I promised the guy on the phone that I’d bring the prettiest woman in Manhattan.” I gesture toward Lucrezia with a flourish. The hostess smiles politely, not catching the joke.
Lucrezia tries to contain a grin, her lips twitching at the corners as she shakes her head. “Let’s hope your charm gets us a table, Drake,” she replies with an eye roll.
The hostess leads us to a corner table by a window overlooking a tiny garden out back—just some vines climbing a wooden trellis and a string of fairy lights glowing softly against the dark sky. It’s intimate and quiet. Perfect.
We sit opposite each other. Lucrezia crosses her legs under the table, leaning back, studying me. I pick up the menu and scan it, but the words blur for a moment as I notice how the candlelight sparks her eyes with something unreadable.
“This is nice,” she says finally, her voice calm, but I can read between the lines. She’s acknowledging that we’re a world away from where we began—murder, revenge, and bloodshed.
I nod, watching the shadows play across her face. “I figured you might enjoy something low-key.” I set the menu down with a gentle tap against the white tablecloth. “Manhattan doesn’t have any five-star restaurants, but I tried. At least the wine list is decent.”
“I appreciate the effort. Though I’m surprised you didn’t pick a biker bar that serves chicken wings.”
I mock-gasp, pressing a hand to my chest with exaggerated offense. “You wound me. I’m a man of many layers, I’ll have you know.” I lean forward slightly, letting my voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, the chicken wings here are actually pretty good.”
A waiter materializes at our table, placing crystal water glasses and asking in a hushed tone if we’d like to start with some wine. I glance at Lucrezia, trying to read her preference. She nods. “A glass of red for me,” she says, scanning the wine list swiftly. “Chianti, please.”
I follow suit, “Same for me,” trying my best to sound like I know what I’m talking about and not just copying her choice to avoid embarrassment. We drink a lot of beer and whiskey at the Destroyers clubhouse. I wouldn’t know the difference between a $50 bottle of wine and a $5 bottle of wine.
When the waiter leaves, we toy with our bread plates, the silence comfortable but expectant. A basket of warm garlic bread arrives moments later, fragrant and dripping with butter, steam rising in delicate wisps. I pick up a piece between thumb and forefinger, eyeing it warily.
“Scared of a little butter?” Lucrezia teases, holding her piece aloft with elegant fingers and letting a drip of melted goodness fall back into the basket.
I roll my eyes before dipping the bread into olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “If I get butter on this shirt, you’re paying my dry cleaning bill.”
She laughs, a quiet sound that makes something inside me tighten pleasantly. “If you’re worried about dry cleaning, maybe don’t wear white on a date.” She takes another delicate bite, somehow managing to avoid any wayward drips.
“Who said this is a date?”
Lucrezia narrows her eyes playfully, twirling the piece of bread in her hand. “Didn’t you? Or am I imagining things?”
I spread my hands, feigning innocence. “We’re just two criminals enjoying a meal before our next bloodbath.”
She snorts, taking a bite out of the freshly baked bread. “You’re the one who said, ‘Yeah, a date.’ Don’t try to backtrack now.” Her finger traces the rim of her water glass absently.
I concede with a mock sigh, leaning back in my chair. “You’re right, it’s a date. Are you happy?”
She pretends to consider, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll let you know after the entrée.”
Our wine arrives a moment later, and we clink glasses softly, the crystal making a pure, resonant note. I savor a sip—dry, with a slight bite that lingers pleasantly on the tongue. I notice the way Lucrezia holds the stem delicately, her wrist turning gracefully as she swirls the burgundy liquid. Even the small gestures reveal her refined side, an innate elegance that seems to come naturally to her, something I suspect her father never nurtured.
“So,” she says, leaning in a bit, her forearms resting on the tablecloth, “tell me something not related to guns, bikes, or Castigliones. Something about you.”
I pause, caught off guard by the directness of her request. “Me?” I run a hand through my hair, trying to think of something worth sharing that isn’t tied to the Destoyers. “Well, I—” I chuckle softly, feeling almost sheepish, “I love old Western movies—the cheesy ones with standoffs at high noon and tumbleweeds drifting by. Don’t know why; there’s just something comforting in the simplicity. Good guys wear white hats, bad guys wear black, and justice always prevails in the end.” A stark contrast to my job and hers, if we’re being honest.
Lucrezia genuinely smiles, the look breaking her face in two. “Really? I never pegged you as a cowboy-at-heart kind of guy. Though now that I think about it, you do have that lone wolf quality about you.”
I shrug, feeling more at ease than I expected. “We all have secrets. What about you?”
She taps a fingernail on her glass, thinking. “I like to draw, sometimes. Sketches. Nothing fancy. I used to doodle on napkins in cafés when I was younger. It’s calming.”
The idea of her sketching in some quiet coffee shop, her mind far from blood feuds and revenge, warms me. I picture her brow furrowed in concentration, charcoal smudges on her fingertips, lost in her own private world while steam rises from an untouched cappuccino beside her. “I’d like to see that sometime,” I say, surprising myself by how much I mean it.
Lucrezia pretends to scoff. “As if I’d show you my art. It’s private.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Private, sure. But maybe one day you’ll trust me enough to show me… if we live that long.”
A moment passes. Then the waiter returns to take our order—gnocchi for her and pasta with spicy sausage for me. Another basket of bread, more butter, and a shared grin over the ridiculousness that we’re here, pretending to be normal when the world around us is anything but.
As we wait for our food, the conversation drifts into deeper waters. She tells me about walking through the markets in Italy, the smell of fresh lemons and olives, and the way the old women scolded her if she didn’t pick the best produce. Her eyes light up when she describes the early morning bustle of the convent, the way the sunlight would catch on the ancient cobblestones, and how the girls would giggle with each other while cooking and cleaning.
I respond by mentioning how I’ve barely left Kansas except for club runs—a trip to El Paso once and a couple of states here and there. “I never really traveled for pleasure, always business,” I admit, feeling a twinge of envy for the life experiences she’s had, even if they weren’t of her own choosing.
“Maybe you should change that,” Lucrezia shrugs. “What’s stopping you?”
I snort softly. “This life, I guess. There’s always something to handle or some fire to put out. It’s hard to just up and go see the world when you’ve got responsibilities.”
She nods with understanding. “I get that. I used to dream of seeing the world, but the family always kept me tethered.” Her smile turns wistful, and I can see the same chains of duty that bind me reflected in her expression.
Our food arrives, and the conversation pauses as we take that first bite. The gnocchi is pillowy and soft, drenched in a sauce that smells heavenly—a perfect blend of cream, sage, and butter that makes my mouth water just looking at it. My pasta is spicy, and the fresh chili and garlic make my tongue tingle in a good way. It’s good—the kind of authentic Italian cooking that makes you close your eyes and savor every forkful.
We settle into a comfortable rhythm. The flicker of candlelight dances across Lucrezia’s face, catching subtle shifts in her expression. And I watch, fascinated, as she relaxes fractionally. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the company, maybe it’s the brief illusion that no one is trying to kill us in this very moment.
I reach for another piece of bread, tearing off a corner and watching the steam rise. “If you keep staring at me like that, Lucrezia, people might think you like me.”
She arches a brow, the gesture somehow both elegant and dismissive. “ Me? Like you? ” She taps a fingertip against the edge of her wine glass, creating tiny ripples in the dark red liquid. “Maybe I’m just making sure you’re not plotting some grand betrayal.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling despite myself. “If I wanted to betray you, I wouldn’t have picked a place that has tiramisu on the menu. I’m pretty sure that counts as a peace offering.” I gesture toward the dessert menu propped between us, its corners worn from countless hands.
Her eyes light up at the mention, a flash of pleasure breaking through her carefully maintained facade. “Tiramisu, huh? You might know a thing or two about winning someone over.” She takes another sip of wine, but not before I catch the slight upturn of her lips.
When we finish our entrées, the waiter appears and asks if we’d like dessert. I glance at Lucrezia, and she inclines her head, giving me the slightest nod. We order the tiramisu to share, and I notice how her fingers drum once more against the tablecloth in anticipation.
As we wait, she rests her chin on her hand, studying me carefully. “Thank you,” Lucrezia says after a few moments.
“For what?” I ask, surprised by the sincerity in her tone.
“For this,” she gestures vaguely around us, “the normalcy. The effort. I know it’s not easy considering everything.” Her voice trails off, and I don’t know if she’s talking about the nature of our relationship, what happened with Saverio, or the night I told her about Becca.
I nod, my throat feeling a bit tight, fingers absently tracing the rim of my water glass. “I figured you deserved a break from the madness.” I hesitate, then add, “And maybe I needed it, too.” The admission feels both vulnerable and necessary.
A quiet understanding passes through her eyes, and for a moment, the bustling restaurant around us seems to fade into the background, the clink of silverware and murmur of conversation becoming distant echoes. She reaches across the table, her fingertips barely brushing against my hand. “I know we’re both part of worlds that don’t allow this kind of peace, especially for people like us. So, let’s enjoy it while we can.”
The tiramisu arrives, served in a charming glass dish with cocoa dusted on top. I take a spoon, offering it to her first. Lucrezia takes a small bite and closes her eyes as if savoring a memory. I watch her, feeling an odd pride that I picked a place that made her do that.
I take a bite next, and the sweetness melts on my tongue, rich mascarpone cream and espresso-soaked cake creating perfect harmony. “Not bad at all,” I murmur, already reaching for another spoonful.
“See, you do have taste,” Lucrezia quips. “They’ll have to put on your tombstone: ‘He could pick a good dessert.’ ”
I chuckle, shaking my head at her playful jab. The banter is light, but underneath it, I feel a current of something more profound. Admiration, respect, maybe even tenderness—emotions I hadn’t expected to surface over something as simple as tiramisu. We’ve both been through so much, and yet here we are, carving out a moment of grace.
When the dessert is nearly gone, Lucrezia leans back in her chair. “I have to admit, this is not how I pictured spending tonight.”
“How did you picture it?”
She shrugs, looking past me as if considering a distant horizon. “Running. Hiding. Plotting my next move against Saverio. Not… this .” She gestures at the candlelight, the other couples, and the lingering sweetness of our dessert.
I settle the bill and stand, leaving a generous tip for the attentive service. Lucrezia follows suit, and we both pull on our jackets and head outside. The stars are out, scattered like diamonds across the inky sky. Headlights from a passing car sweep over us, momentarily illuminating Lucrezia’s features—strong cheekbones, determined jaw, eyes that could slice through steel. In that brief flash of light, I’m struck again by how she carries herself with equal parts elegance and lethal grace, even in the quiet moments.
As we approach my bike, I drape my jacket over her shoulders without asking. It’s colder on the motorcycle, and I’d hate for her to freeze on the ride home since it doesn’t look like she’s going to take the car she came here in. The night air already has a sharp bite to it, and the wind chill at forty miles per hour will only make it worse.
Lucrezia looks at me, one eyebrow raised, lips curving into a half-smile that suggests she’s both annoyed and touched by the old-fashioned gesture. “You know if the shoe were on the other foot, I wouldn’t give you my jacket, right?” She teases softly, adjusting the jacket more snugly around her shoulders despite her mockery.
I shrug. “I guess I’m more of a gentleman than you, Miss Castiglione.”
She looks at me, and for a beat, the world narrows to just the two of us, the rest of the parking lot fading into meaningless shadows. I see the flush in her cheeks under the streetlamp’s glow as she meets my gaze, her dark eyes glittering with something unspoken, and it emboldens me. My heart thunders in my chest as I lean down and press a gentle, lingering kiss to her temple, breathing in the subtle scent of her perfume. She inhales softly, not pulling away, and I feel her shoulders relax beneath the borrowed jacket.
“Careful, Drake,” Lucrezia murmurs. “You keep this up, and you might bite off more than you can chew with me.”
I grin, fingers trailing down her arm before I pull back. “Good.”
We mount the bike. Lucrezia settles behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, her body fitting against my back in a way that feels natural and right. The engine rumbles to life beneath us, vibrating through our bodies as I steer us away from Nico’s. The night air whips her hair out behind us. Lucrezia’s hold on me is steady, not desperate, but secure. She leans into each turn with practiced ease, like we’ve done this a thousand times instead of just two or three.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Hell, I don’t even know what the rest of the night will bring. The world could burn down around us, or Saverio could show up at my house in the middle of the night and kill us in our beds. But for now, as we glide through the quiet streets of Manhattan, I memorize the feeling of her arms wrapped around me, the way her breath occasionally ghosts across my neck, and the perfect pressure of her thighs bracketing mine.
If this is what we can salvage from the ruins of our lives, I’ll take it. It may not be a happy ending, but it’s a moment of grace—one I won’t forget any time soon.