10. Skye
10
SKYE
T he brass bell above my boutique door chimes as Mrs. Romano waddles in, her designer handbag swinging. I'm arranging a new display of silk scarves, but her hushed conversation with her companion catches my attention.
"Did you hear about Don Mantione?" Her whisper carries across the empty store. "Found him this morning."
My fingers still on the silk, but I keep my professional smile fixed. The scarf's material slides like water between my fingers as I pretend to be absorbed in my task.
"Heart attack, they're saying." Mrs. Romano's friend clicks her tongue. "Though with his temper..."
I think of the man who's been visiting my shop - tall, impeccably dressed in suits that cost more than my monthly rent. The way he places his silver watch on my counter while trying on jackets, like he owns the space. How other clients step back when he enters, their eyes down, voices hushed.
"His son will take over now," Mrs. Romano mutters. "That quiet one. More dangerous than the father, if you ask me. He's so…emotionless."
"Terrifying."
The son. Ice blue eyes flash in my memory. The controlled way he moves, each gesture precise. The lack of emotions. He can't be…
No. I don't want to know.
My fingertips trace the glass counter where he always sets his watch. The same spot, every visit. Everything about him is controlled, from his perfectly styled dark hair to his measured words. But there's something else there - an emptiness in those eyes that makes my skin prickle.
"I heard he doesn't even react when people get hurt," Mrs. Romano continues. "Just watches. Cold as ice."
I straighten a jacket on its hanger, remembering how it looked on him last week. The way the material draped over his shoulders, how he barely acknowledged my presence while I made adjustments. Not rudely - just distant, like I was a piece of furniture.
"Careful," Mrs. Romano's friend warns. "Walls have ears in this city."
I move toward them with a bright smile. "Can I help you ladies find anything today?"
But my mind is racing. All those quiet visits, the way he studies everything like he's cataloging weaknesses. And I still don't know what he wants from me.
The afternoon rush brings in the usual crowd - perfectly coiffed women with designer bags and secrets spilling from their lips. I recognize Maria Rosetti's Louboutin clicks first, followed by Sophia Patrillo's throaty laugh. The scent of expensive perfume fills my boutique as they browse through the racks.
"Did you see him at the funeral?" Maria adjusts her pearl necklace. "Standing there like a statue while they lowered Tony into the ground."
I slide hangers across the rack, arranging the new Versace pieces while keeping my movements casual. These women don't realize how much they reveal when they think they're among friends.
"He cleared house already." Sophia's voice drops to barely a whisper. "Three of Tony's old capos, gone. Just like that." She snaps her manicured fingers.
"Smart move." This from Carmen, a capo's wife who always pays in cash. She holds up a black cocktail dress against her curves. "The old guard was too loyal to Tony. You know how they enabled his... episodes."
The women exchange knowing looks. I fold a cashmere sweater, my movements deliberate as I stay within earshot.
"Young Mantione's different though." Carmen's ruby red lips purse. "Calculated. You should see how he runs meetings now. No drinking allowed. Everything precise."
"Those eyes of his give me chills." Maria shivers, despite the boutique's warmth. "Like he's taking inventory of your soul."
I think of ice blue eyes that study me. Of how they seem to look straight into the core of who I am - but don't scare me.
And then I shove those thoughts away.
"Careful." Sophia glances around, her diamond earrings catching the light. "You know what happened to Gino when he questioned the new leadership."
The conversation dies as my bell chimes again. They scatter to different racks, suddenly absorbed in silk blouses and evening wear. The whispers fade to mundane chatter about hemlines and seasonal colors, but the tension lingers like smoke in still air.
I do everything I can not to think about him as the rest of the women make it harder and harder for me to ignore that I think I know who Mr. Dangerous is. Even if I don't want to.
By the time they all leave, the sunset bleeds orange through my boutique windows and I start my closing routine. The register's quiet hum fills the empty space while I count today's earnings. A shadow falls across the counter.
I don't need to look up to know it's him. The temperature seems to drop ten degrees. But again, I feel no fear.
"We're technically closed." I keep my tone light, professional.
He moves into the shop like he owns it. His presence fills the space differently now - there's a new weight to his steps, a sharper edge to his perfectly pressed suit. The watch gleams on his wrist as he approaches my counter.
"I need a tie." His voice carries no inflection.
"Most people do for funerals." The words slip out before I can stop them. I snap my head up, not wanting him to confirm or deny anything. "A lot of women in here today had come from a funeral. Don't know what I was thinking when I said that."
His ice blue eyes fix on me. No change in expression, but something shifts in the air between us. I resist the urge to step back.
"Black seems appropriate." I move toward the tie display, hyperaware of his gaze tracking my movements. "Though I'm thinking burgundy might suit you better. Add some color to that whole emotionless robot thing you've got going."
The corner of his mouth twitches - so slight I almost miss it. "You talk too much."
"And you talk too little. We all have our flaws." I hold up two options. "Though I suppose being a conversationalist isn't high on the priority list for..." I trail off, remembering who I'm speaking to. I don't need to get to know him.
"For what?" His voice carries a dangerous edge.
I meet his stare. "For someone who looks like they're calculating how many bodies could fit in my storage room."
He steps closer. I can smell his expensive cologne, see the perfect knot of his current tie. "Four, if you're curious. Five if they're small."
A shiver runs down my spine, but I force a smile. "See? That's what I mean. Most people would laugh at a joke like that."
"I wasn't joking." He takes the burgundy tie from my hands, his fingers brushing mine. They're ice cold. "This one."
I wrap the burgundy silk with practiced motions, but my attention stays fixed on his hands. His right thumb keeps brushing over the face of that silver watch. One, two, three times in the span of a minute. The gesture seems almost compulsive today, like a tell he can't quite control.
"You said it was your grandfather's?" I tap my own wrist, nodding at the antique timepiece. "Family heirloom then?"
His fingers still. "It keeps time."
"Most watches do." I fold crisp tissue paper around the tie. "But most people don't check them like they're counting down to something."
Those ice blue eyes lock onto mine. The emptiness in them should frighten me, but instead I find myself wanting to crack that perfect facade. To see what lies beneath all that careful control.
"You notice too much." His voice carries no inflection, but his thumb strokes the watch face again.
"Professional hazard." I slide the wrapped package across the counter. "Can't dress people properly if you don't pay attention to details."
When he reaches for the tie, our fingers brush again. That same electric current shoots through my skin, and this time I catch it - the slight dilation of his pupils, the barely perceptible catch in his breathing. Gone in an instant, buried beneath layers of cold precision, but it was there.
"Speaking of details," I lean forward, deliberately invading his space. "Your left cuff is a millimeter higher than your right."
He doesn't move back. "Is it?"
"No." A smile plays at my lips. "But you just checked. Interesting that someone so controlled would care about something so small."
His jaw tightens - another microscopic tell. "Goodnight, Miss Calloway."
"Sweet dreams of perfectly aligned cuffs." I barely stop myself from calling him Mr. Dangerous out loud.
His fingers trace the watch one final time before he turns to leave, and I swear I see the ghost of something human flash across his face. Like a crack in marble, gone before you can be sure it was ever there.
The bell's final chime fades into silence. I flip the sign to "Closed" and lean against the counter, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My fingertips trace the spot where his watch rested, still cool from the metal.
Every whispered conversation from the past weeks slots into place like pieces of an elaborate puzzle. The way Mrs. Figarello clutched her pearls when he passed her in the shop. How the Rosetti brothers cleared out mid-fitting the moment he walked in. The sudden silence when he enters a room, like everyone's holding their breath.
I move through the racks, straightening hangers that don't need straightening. My heel clicks echo in the empty space as I catalog each detail about him. The way he always stands with his back to a wall. How he surveys every room before fully entering. The precise distance he maintains from others - except with me. During fittings, he lets me close enough to feel the coiled tension beneath those expensive suits.
That watch, though. My hands still on a silk blazer as I picture his repetitive gesture. One, two, three strokes across its face. Like a ritual or a nervous tic, except nothing about him suggests nervousness. Everything else about him is calculated perfection, from his immaculate hair to his measured steps.
I know Jazz told me to be careful, but I find myself remembering that millisecond when our fingers touched. The slight dilation of his pupils, the barely-there hitch in his breathing. Proof that something human exists beneath that marble exterior. Like finding a hairline crack in a flawless diamond.
My reflection catches in the store window - amber eyes bright with curiosity rather than fear. I've always been drawn to dangerous things, treating life like a game of chance. But this feels different. More intense. Every interaction with him is like playing with fire, testing how close I can get before being burned.
That watch tell though... it's the first real evidence that his perfect control isn't absolute. And I nearly got him to smile. Every little thing that I can find only makes me feel a little giddier.
And God help me, but I want to find more.