Chapter Three #2
I’m grinning now, watching him relax incrementally with each answer. “See? You can do fun. You just need practice.”
“Is this what normal people do on dates?” He looks genuinely curious. “Rapid-fire questions?”
“This is what I do on dates. I find small talk boring. I want to know the real things. Like—” I grab a biscotti and point it at him. “If you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?”
“My father.”
The answer comes quickly, and there’s something raw in his voice that makes me want to reach across the couch and take his hand.
“Past tense,” I say softly.
“He died when I was sixteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He lived the life he chose.” There’s something complicated in his expression, grief, anger and something that might be pride. “Your turn. Who would you have dinner with?”
“My nonna. Without question.” I smile at the memory. “She was this tiny Italian woman with an iron will and the greenest thumb I’ve ever seen. She could make anything grow. And she made the best tiramisu in the world, don’t tell my mother I said that.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
We fall into an easier rhythm after that, trading questions and stories.
I learn he’s an only child, that he speaks three languages (Italian, English, and Spanish), he’s never been married and has no children.
He learns I’m terrible at math, that I once accidentally dyed all my white clothes pink in the laundry,I’m afraid of spiders but will relocate them outside rather than kill them because “they’re just doing their spider thing. ”
He asks about my shop, and I light up talking about it, about the joy of creating arrangements, helping people mark important moments with flowers, the satisfaction of building something with my own hands.
“You love it,” he observes.
“I do. It’s hard work, and the margins are terrible, and I’m constantly worried about making rent, but...” I shrug. “It’s mine. I created it. Every flower, every arrangement, every satisfied customer—that’s all me. How many people get to say that about their work?”
“Not many.”
“What about you? Do you love what you do?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “It’s complicated.”
“Most important things are.”
“Yes.” He’s watching me with those intense dark eyes again, and I feel pinned in place. “You’re very easy to talk to.”
“Is that surprising?”
“Yes. I don’t usually...” He trails off, seeming to struggle for words. “I don’t do this. Dates. Conversation. Normal.”
“Well, you’re doing great.” And I mean it.
Yes, he’s a bit awkward. Yes, there’s something dangerous about him I can’t quite put my finger on.
But he’s also genuine in a way most men I’ve dated aren’t.
He’s not trying to impress me with money or connections.
He’s just here. Present. Listening like what I have to say matters.
“Thank you for inviting me up here,” he says quietly. “For sharing this space with me. I know you don’t know me very well, and it was probably not the smartest decision—”
“Hey.” I lean closer, placing my coffee cup down with a soft click.
“I know people, and everything about you says you’re a good man, Alessandro De Luca.
Complicated, secretive, ridiculously hot in those suits that probably cost more than my rent.
And the way you keep eyeing my windows? I’m not sure if you’re planning an escape or imagining how fast you could throw me out of one. ”
He goes very still. “You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot of things. I also noticed the gun under your jacket.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to leave. Or lie. Or both.
Instead, he says, “I should probably explain—”
The explosion cuts him off.
One second, we’re sitting on my couch, having coffee and conversation. The next, the entire building shakes. The windows rattle. My Christmas tree tips over. And the sound, God, the sound is deafening, like thunder, breaking glass and destruction all rolled into one.
I scream. I can’t help it.
Alessandro is on his feet instantly, moving toward the window with a speed that shouldn’t be possible. His whole demeanor has changed, he’s no longer the awkward man struggling with small talk. In his place is someone cold, controlled, and terrifying.
“Stay away from the windows,” he barks, his voice sharp with command.
I scramble off the couch, my heart hammering. “What was that? What’s happening?”
He’s on his phone, speaking in rapid Italian. Through the window, I can see smoke rising from somewhere down the street. There are people running, screaming. Car alarms blaring.
“Alessandro—”
“Stay here.” He’s already moving toward the door, shrugging into his coat. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone except me.”
“Wait, what? You can’t just leave—”
He turns back, and the look on his face stops me cold. This is not the man who was just sitting on my couch, hesitantly answering questions about his favorite color. This is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.
“Elena.” He crosses back to me in two strides, taking my face in his hands. His touch is gentle despite the urgency in his voice. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. Lock the door. Stay away from the windows. Do not leave this apartment until I come back for you. Do you understand?”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Good. You should be scared. But you’ll be safe if you do exactly what I say.” His thumbs brush across my cheekbones, and for a second, I see something in his eyes, regret, maybe or an apology? “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I have to go.”
“Alessandro—”
He kisses me.
It’s brief, fierce, and completely unexpected. His lips are warm and firm against mine, and there’s a desperation to it that makes my chest ache. And then he’s pulling away, already moving toward the door.
“Lock it behind me,” he says again.
And then he’s gone, thundering down the stairs, leaving me standing in my suddenly-too-quiet apartment with the taste of him on my lips and the sound of chaos on the street below.
I lock the door with shaking hands.
Through the window, even though he told me to stay away from them, I can see smoke billowing up from down the street. There are sirens now, distant but getting closer. People are still running, still screaming.
And Alessandro is heading straight toward it.
I sink onto the couch, my mind racing.
What the hell just happened?
What was that explosion?
And why did Alessandro react like he was expecting it?
My phone buzzes. A text from Mira: Are you okay? I heard an explosion near your shop.
I stare at the message, not sure how to respond. Am I okay? I don’t know. I’m unharmed, but I’m definitely not okay.
Another text comes through, this one from an unknown number: This is Alessandro. I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything when I get back. Stay inside. Please.
Clutching my phone, I’m torn between terror, confusion and something else, something warm and fluttering that has no business existing in a moment like this.
Because despite everything, the explosion, the gun, the way he transformed into someone cold and dangerous in the span of a heartbeat, I’m not afraid of Alessandro.
I’m afraid for him.
And that might be the scariest thing of all.
I text back: Be careful.
The response comes immediately: Always.
I move away from the window and curl up on the couch, pulling a blanket around myself. My coffee has gone cold. The biscotti sits untouched on the plate. My Christmas tree is on its side, ornaments scattered across the floor.
Outside, the sirens are getting louder.
And all I can do is wait for a man I barely know to come back from whatever danger he’s running toward.
A man who kissed me like it might be the last time.
A man who told me to lock the door and stay safe.
A man who, despite all my instincts screaming I should be terrified of, I think I might already be falling for.
I pull the blanket tighter and close my eyes.
Please be okay, Alessandro. Please come back.
Because I have questions.
So many questions.
And I have a feeling the answers are going to change everything.