Witness Protection and Other Minor Inconveniences

Chapter 1

Chapter One

STEVIE

I’m not stalking Dario Marchetti.

I’m conducting a longitudinal study on human behavioral patterns in semi-formal dining environments.

There’s a difference.

Stalking implies intent to harm. Obsession. Criminal activity.

Okay maybe obsession fits, two out of three is good.

So, not a stalker.

Just a woman who happens to know that he comes to Carmine’s every Tuesday at 7:15 PM, orders the linguine, eats for exactly forty-three minutes, tips exactly 22%, and leaves by 8:05.

That’s science. Data collection. The kind of meticulous observation that should earn me a research grant, not a restraining order.

Though to be fair, my high school friend Delilah got both.

This is my fifth consecutive Tuesday here.

I’ve memorized his routine down to the number of times he refolds his napkin (three), the way he holds his wine glass (stem, never bowl, like a civilized human), and the exact angle his jaw tightens when someone nearby chews too loud. (Two millimeters. Left side only.)

That jaw? Made to be sat on. Looks more comfortable than this chair from where I’m sitting.

I’m very good at noticing things.

Some girls memorize constellations. I could map every tendon in Dario’s neck from memory, sketch his swallow in court-ordered detail.

Maybe it’s evidence. Maybe it’s porn. Who the hell knows.

Jury’s still out.

It’s 7:23 PM and I’m three tables diagonal with a perfect sight line, eating chicken parm I can barely taste because I’m too busy watching the way lamplight catches in his dark hair.

He’s beautiful in that dangerous, controlled way that probably means he has people on retainer to make problems disappear.

I should be attracted to stable men with 401(k)s and emotional availability.

Instead, I’m here. Again. Watching a man who could probably kill me with a dessert fork and make it look like an accident.

My therapist would have thoughts about this.

If I had the self-awareness to call her instead of sitting here thinking about how his hands would feel wrapped around my throat.

Stop.

I take a bite of chicken parm. Chew. Swallow. Pretend to be normal.

Two weeks ago, he looked at me.

Just for a second. Our eyes met while I was observing, and instead of looking away like a person with survival instincts, I smiled.

He smiled back.

It was probably automatic. Muscle memory. The kind of polite acknowledgment you give strangers.

But I’ve been feral about it for fourteen days.

Replayed it so many times the memory’s gone soft at the edges, more fantasy than fact. Wondered if he remembers. If he’s noticed I’ve been here every Tuesday since.

If he’s building a file on me the way I’m building one on him.

Probably not.

Men like him don’t notice women like me.

I’m forgettable. The human equivalent of wallpaper. I blend into backgrounds while cataloging everyone else in alarming detail.

Which is fine. Safer that way.

I’m reaching for my wine when a man approaches Dario’s table.

Not a server. Someone younger, agitated. The kind of wound-up energy that makes every nerve in my body sit up and pay attention.

Dario’s posture shifts. Shoulders back. Expression going carefully blank.

That’s his tell. That neutral face means he’s about to do something.

I know this because I’ve been watching him for five weeks.

Observing.

God, I need hobbies that don’t involve potential felonies.

The other man’s talking. Low, urgent. I can’t catch words but I can read the escalation. Hands clenching. Voice rising.

“...told you...” “...can’t keep...” “...fucking serious...”

Dario stands.

And oh.

Oh.

There’s something about the way he moves, efficient, controlled, like violence gift-wrapped in Italian wool, that makes my brain chemistry do something extremely inadvisable.

The other man’s yelling now. Getting in his face.

And then it happens.

Fast. Too fast. One second the man’s yelling, the next he’s not. Not yelling, not even on his feet.

He’s on the floor with red blooming across his shirt like a fucked-up Rorschach test.

The restaurant erupts. Screaming. Chairs scraping. Someone’s phone clattering.

But I’m not screaming.

I’m watching Dario adjust his cuffs.

Straighten his jacket.

Like the body on the floor is an inconvenience between him and his linguine. Like he just swatted a mosquito instead of ending someone’s entire existence.

Why is that hot?

I shouldn’t be aroused. I am. My entire body is malfunctioning in public, and the only thing I want is for Dario to look at me, see what he’s done to me, to do it again.

Something is deeply, catastrophically wrong with me and my uterus needs to be placed in federal custody.

He’s getting arrested and I’m getting wet.

We are not the same. Or maybe we are.

My vision tunnels. Edges going gray. Heart trying to exit through my ribcage.

I should look away. Run.

But I can’t move.

Can’t breathe. Can’t stop staring at him standing there like casual homicide is just another Tuesday.

“Look at me.”

The voice cuts through the static.

I blink.

Dario’s there. Right there. Crouched beside my booth like he didn’t just ruin someone’s whole ribcage and walk away cleaner than a Tide ad.

One hand on my arm. One braced on the table.

If he touched me for real, I’d probably die. Or moan. Or both.

He just killed someone and all I can think about is whether his hands would feel this warm everywhere.

Up close he’s even more devastating. Dark eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes me want to bite his lip.

I’m going to hell. There’s an express lane with my name on it.

“Breathe,” he says. Firm. Commanding. The voice of a man used to being obeyed.

“Yes, sir.” My body responds before my brain catches up. I suck in air.

He smells like expensive cologne and dominance. I want to lick his throat.

What the fuck is wrong with me.

“Good girl,” he says, still watching me. “Again.”

I breathe. He doesn’t look away.

Nobody’s ever looked at me like this. Like I’m the only person in the room. Like I matter.

Did he just praise me? That’s foreplay.

I’m having a sexual crisis in the middle of a crime scene.

Someone’s shouting. Multiple someones. Sirens wailing closer.

“Boss, we gotta go. Now.”

A different man. Built like he eats motorcycles for breakfast. Also hot.

But Dario doesn’t move. Doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“You need water,” he says.

Not a question. A statement. Like he knows.

He flags down a server who looks ready to spontaneously combust. “Water. Now.”

The server scrambles.

“Boss. Please.”

“In a minute, Enzo.”

Enzo. The panic-man has the kind of name you scream as he takes you apart and looks like he’s about to start breaking necks.

But Dario stays. Crouched beside me. Making sure I can breathe.

Making sure I’m okay.

The water arrives. He hands it to me personally. Watches while I drink with shaking hands.

Our fingers brush.

I almost drop the glass.

“Better?”

I nod. It’s a lie. Nothing about this is better.

Everything about this is perfect and I’m absolutely going to hell.

Sirens. Right outside now.

“Boss.” Real fear in Enzo’s voice this time.

Finally, finally, Dario looks away. Toward the flashing lights outside. Something crosses his face. Calculation. Acceptance.

He stands. Straightens his jacket one more time.

“You’re going to be fine,” he tells me. Then, quieter, like he’s talking to himself: “I’m sorry you saw that.”

Not sorry he did it.

Sorry I saw it.

He noticed me. Saw me. Stayed to make sure I was okay.

That should terrify me.

It doesn’t.

And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

Police burst through the door. Guns drawn. Shouting.

Everything becomes chaos and movement and someone’s asking if I’m okay, if I saw what happened, if I can give a statement.

Can I give a statement?

Oh boy, can I ever.

I open my mouth and it all spills out. Every detail. Every observation I shouldn’t know.

“He comes here every Tuesday at 7:15. Orders the linguine. Always sits at that table. He was eating methodically, fork, twirl, bite, sip, when the other man approached. Agitated. The victim’s hands were clenched, shoulders forward, classic pre-aggression posture.

The defendant.” I catch myself. “I mean, he, stood up, one smooth motion, weight balanced, controlled. Military training maybe? Or martial arts. The victim got louder, invaded his personal space, approximately eight inches, really fucking hostile, and then.”

The officer is writing. Fast. Looking at me weird.

I keep going because apparently my mouth has divorced my brain and filed for sole custody.

“It happened so fast but his form was perfect. Efficient. No wasted movement. Then he adjusted his cuffs. Right cuff first, then left. He straightened his jacket. The vent in the back was slightly creased. And then he checked on me. Came directly to my table. Put his hand on my arm. Right here.”

I touch the spot. It’s still warm. “His hands were steady. No tremor. Pulse probably under 80. And he smells like bergamot and cedar with a base note of something darker. Leather maybe. Or that might have been the other man. Enzo. He smells nice too.”

“Ma’am.” The officer looks concerned. For me. About me. “How long have you been watching Mr. Marchetti?”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“I wasn’t watching him. I was just... observing. Generally. The restaurant. He happened to be in my line of sight.”

“And you noticed all of this in the moment? During a traumatic event?”

“I notice things. It’s a skill.”

“You can describe his routine. What he orders. How he eats.”

God this sounds bad.

“I come here often. Same nights. It’s... coincidence.”

Three officers are staring at me now.

Across the restaurant, Dario’s being put in handcuffs.

He looks at me.

The same way he looked when he was making sure I could breathe.

And I don’t know what he sees in my face but something shifts in his expression.

Not anger. Not betrayal.

Curiosity.

Like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. Good luck with that. I’ve got missing pieces.

They lead him away and I give my statement to three more officers who all look at me like I’m either an incredibly detailed witness or an incredibly detailed problem.

Someone gives me a card for a victim’s advocate even though I’m not the victim.

I’m the idiot who’s been accidentally stalking a mobster for five weeks and just detailed his entire routine to police while he gets arrested for murder.

By the time they let me leave, it’s past midnight.

I didn’t finish my chicken parm.

I think about that the whole drive home. Not the body or the handcuffs or the way Dario’s eyes looked when he told me to breathe.

Just the chicken parm, gone to waste. Which is a goddamn shame because a good chicken parm is hard to find.

That and how I’ll probably never go back to that restaurant.

I noticed everything about him except the part where I should have looked away.

He noticed me too.

And now he knows exactly how much I’ve been watching.

I pull into my apartment complex and sit in my car with the engine off.

Stare at my steering wheel.

Process what just happened.

I should be horrified. Traumatized. Calling my therapist and asking about PTSD treatment.

Instead, I’m sitting in my car at 1 AM thinking about the way his hand felt on my arm. The exact timbre of his voice when he said breathe. The way he stayed when he should have run.

He stayed for me.

Nobody ever stays for me.

I’m the forgettable girl. The background character. The woman men look through on their way to someone more interesting.

But Dario Marchetti, killer, mobster, walking wet dream with a death wish, stopped the world and saw me.

And I sent him away, gift-wrapped for the state.

The laugh that bubbles up sounds unhinged even to my own ears.

I gave them everything. His routine, his patterns, every detail my brain collected like evidence.

And the whole time I was thinking about how his hands would feel in my hair.

I get out of the car. Lock it. Walk to my apartment on autopilot.

I brush my teeth. Change into pajamas. The bright blue ones with the cookie monster on them. Get into bed.

Stare at the ceiling.

Think about Tuesdays at Carmine’s. Linguine and observation. The careful distance I maintained while cataloging every detail.

All that work. All that restraint.

And in one night, he learned more about me than I learned about him in five weeks.

I’m the woman who notices everything.

The woman whose witness statement read like a love letter written in forensic detail.

He knows that now.

And somewhere, in a holding cell, or a lawyer’s office, or wherever alleged mobsters go after committing extremely public murders, he’s probably laughing about it.

Or forgetting me entirely because I’m just the weird witness who talked too much.