Chapter Four #2
We make small talk the rest of the drive, she tells me about a difficult customer who wanted roses but only specific roses from a specific farm in Ecuador, I tell her about a shipment of wine that got held up in customs for three weeks.
It’s easy, comfortable, and I find myself relaxing despite the oversized roses and the suit and the driver.
Maybe this will be okay. Maybe I can have one normal evening with her before everything inevitably falls apart.
Canlis is perched on a hill overlooking Lake Union, all glass and mid-century modern elegance. Paulo drops us at the entrance, and a valet immediately appears to open Elena’s door.
“I’ll be nearby,” Paulo says quietly to me. “If you need anything.”
What he means is: I’ll be watching for threats. I’ll be armed. I’ll be ready.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
Inside, the ma?tre d’ greets us with perfect professional warmth. “Mr. De Luca, welcome. Your table is ready.”
He leads us through the dining room, all warm wood with soft lighting and floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the city lights reflected on the water. It’s beautiful. Romantic. Exactly what I wanted.
Our table is in the corner, slightly secluded. Private.
Elena’s eyes are wide as she takes it all in. “This is incredible.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I hold her chair out for her, and she sits with a small smile.
“Such a gentleman.”
“I try.”
The sommelier appears with a wine list that’s practically a novel. I order a bottle of Barolo without looking at the prices, and Elena raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
“So,” she says once we’re alone again. “Do you do this often? The fancy restaurant, the driver, the full romantic treatment?”
“No. Never.”
“Never?”
“You’re the first woman I’ve taken to dinner in five years.”
She blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me.”
“But you’re... you.” She gestures at me like I’m a puzzle she can’t figure out. “You’re gorgeous and wealthy and mysterious. Women must throw themselves at you constantly.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because those women don’t matter.” The words come out harsher than I intended. “They’re not... this isn’t...”
“Alessandro.” Her hand reaches across the table, finding mine. Her touch is warm, soft. “Breathe. You’re doing fine.”
But I’m not. Because sitting here with her, in this beautiful restaurant with the city lights sparkling below us, I’m acutely aware of how much I want this. How much I want her. And how impossible it all is.
The waiter arrives with our wine, going through the tasting ritual. I barely pay attention, too focused on the way Elena’s thumb is tracing patterns on the back of my hand.
We order, she gets the halibut, I get the steak, and fall into easier conversation. Elena tells me about her friend Mira, who runs a bakery two streets over. I tell her about Marco, my second-in-command, though I frame him as my business partner.
“He sounds protective,” she observes.
“He’s known me for a long time.”
“And he doesn’t approve of me?”
I hesitate. “He doesn’t think I should be dating anyone right now. Business is... complicated.”
“There’s that word again.”
“I’ll explain. Soon. I promise.”
Our food arrives, it’s perfectly cooked and plated beautifully. Elena takes a bite of her halibut and actually moans, and the sound goes straight through me.
“Oh my God,” she says. “This is amazing. Try it.”
She holds out her fork, offering me a bite. It’s intimate in a way that makes my heart race, sharing food, being close, this small domestic gesture.
I lean forward and take the bite, and she’s right. It’s incredible.
“Good?” she asks, her eyes sparkling.
“Very.”
“Your turn.” She nods at my steak. “Share.”
I cut a piece and hold it out. She leans forward, her lips closing around the fork, and Jesus Christ, I need to think about something else before I do something inappropriate in the middle of Canlis.
“That’s perfect,” she breathes. “Why doesn’t food taste like this when I cook?”
“Maybe you’re cooking the wrong things.”
“Or maybe I’m just a terrible cook. Nonna tried to teach me, but I was always more interested in the garden than the kitchen.” She takes a sip of wine. “What about you? Do you cook?”
“Sometimes. Basic things.”
“Let me guess—pasta? Very traditional Italian dishes?”
“My carbonara is almost as good as my mother’s.”
“Almost?”
“You never tell an Italian mother, your cooking is better than hers. It’s a cardinal sin.”
She laughs, and the sound fills me with warmth.
This is good. This is working. Maybe Marco was wrong. Maybe I can have this, these dinners, these conversations, these moments of normalcy in between the violence and the blood.
And then I see him.
Greco’s man, standing near the bar. Dark suit, hand in his pocket. His eyes lock on mine, and I see the moment he recognizes me.
Fuck.
“Elena,” I say carefully, not taking my eyes off the threat. “I need you to stay calm.”
“What?” She starts to turn around.
“Don’t look.” My voice is sharp enough that she freezes. “Keep looking at me. Smile like we’re having a wonderful time.”
“Alessandro, you’re scaring me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But I need you to trust me.” I pull out my phone with one hand, texting Paulo with practiced ease. Greco’s man inside. Need exit.
Elena is staring at me, her face pale. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing. Everything is fine. We’re just going to leave a little early.”
“You said we were having a wonderful time.”
“We are. But something came up.”
“Something always comes up with you,” she says, and there’s hurt in her voice now. “Every time we’re together, something happens. The explosion, now this—”
A crash from the bar area cuts her off. I’m on my feet instantly, positioning myself between Elena and the threat. Greco’s man is arguing with someone, one of my guys, I realize. Paulo must have sent him in.
“We need to go. Now.”
I grab Elena’s hand and pull her toward the back of the restaurant. The ma?tre d’ moves to intercept, but one look at my face and he steps aside.
“Sir, is everything—”
“Emergency,” I say shortly. “We’ll settle the bill later.”
I rush Elena through the kitchen as chefs and sous chefs jump out of our way, and out the back door into an alley. Paulo is already there with the car, engine running.
“In,” I order.
Elena doesn’t argue, sliding into the backseat. I follow, and Paulo peels out before my door is even fully closed.
“What the hell was that?” Elena demands. “Alessandro, what is going on?”
“There was a situation. I got us out of it.”
“A situation? You mean the guy at the bar?”
“You said you weren’t going to look.”
“Yeah, well, I looked anyway.” She’s angry now, I can see it in the set of her jaw. “Who was he? Why did we have to run?”
Through the rear window, I can see another car pulling out of the alley behind us. Greco’s men, following.
“Paulo, lose them,” I say quietly.
“On it, boss.”
Elena’s eyes widen. “Lose them? Lose who? Alessandro—”
Paulo takes a hard right, then a left, weaving through downtown streets with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this before. The car behind us struggles to keep up.
“Hold on,” Paulo warns.
He cuts across two lanes of traffic, earning angry honks, and ducks into a parking garage. He takes the turns fast, tires squealing, going up two levels before pulling into a spot and killing the engine.
We sit in silence for a moment, listening. Waiting.
No other car follows.
“We’re clear,” Paulo says.
“Good. Take us back to her place. Different route.”
“Wait.” Elena’s voice is small, scared. “We’re going back to my apartment? What if they followed us there? What if—”
“They didn’t follow us. Paulo lost them.”
“Paulo lost them because he’s done this before.” She’s looking at me now, really looking at me, and I can see the pieces clicking into place. “Because this is normal for you. Having drivers who can lose people in car chases. Running out of restaurants. Carrying guns.”
“Elena—”
“Tell me the truth.” Her voice is shaking. “Right now. What do you really do, Alessandro?”
I could lie. Should lie. Tell her it’s business rivalry, corporate espionage, anything but the truth.
But I’m tired of lying to her.
“I’ll tell you everything,” I say. “When we get you home safe. When you’re behind a locked door and I know you’re protected. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Okay. But you promise? No more dodging, no more ‘it’s complicated’?”
“I promise.”
She leans back against the seat, and I see her blinking back tears. “This was supposed to be a nice dinner.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You apologize a lot.”
“I have a lot to apologize for.”
We drive back to her place in silence. Paulo takes a circuitous route, doubling back several times to make sure we’re not followed. When we finally pull up outside Petals & Pines, it’s fully dark, the shop windows glowing with Christmas lights.
“I’ll walk you up,” I say.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m walking you up.”
She doesn’t argue.
We climb the stairs to her apartment, the silence between us is heavy with unspoken things. She unlocks her door and steps inside, and I follow, checking the windows, the locks, making sure everything is secure.
“Alessandro.” She’s standing in the middle of her living room, still in that beautiful black dress, her arms wrapped around herself. “I need you to tell me the truth. All of it. Because I’m starting to really care about you, and I can’t do that if I don’t know who you really are.”
I look at her, this beautiful, kind, honest woman who makes flower arrangements and believes in happy endings, and I know that what I’m about to tell her will change everything.
“I’m not just an importer,” I say. “I’m the head of the De Luca family. We control most of the organized crime in Seattle. Drugs, gambling, protection. All of it runs through me.”
She doesn’t say anything, only stares at me with those honey-colored eyes.
“The man at the restaurant works for a rival family. They’re trying to move in on my territory, and they’re using violence to do it. The explosion last night was them. The car chase tonight was them. And being near me puts you in danger.”
“You’re in the mafia,” she says slowly.
“Yes.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“Yes.”
“And those men, they want to hurt you?”
“They want to kill me. And they’ll use anyone close to me to do it.”
She sinks onto the couch, processing this. I should leave. Give her space. Let her decide if she wants anything to do with me now that she knows the truth.
But I can’t move. I need to know her reaction, even if it destroys me.
“Tonight,” she finally says. “The fancy dinner, the driver, all of it was your way of apologizing for putting me in danger?”
“Yes.”
“And the roses?”
“Those too.”
She’s quiet for another moment, then looks up at me. “You’re an idiot.”
Not what I expected.
“Elena—”
“You’re a complete and total idiot, Alessandro De Luca.
” She stands up, crossing to where I’m standing.
“I don’t care about fancy restaurants or expensive wine or oversized bouquets.
I care about this.” She presses her hand to my chest, right over my heart.
“I care about the man who loves his mother enough to buy her special flowers. Who asks about my grandmother’s garden.
Who gets awkward when I ask about his hobbies. That’s the man I’m falling for.”
Falling for.
“You shouldn’t,” I say roughly. “You should run as far away from me as possible.”
“Probably,” she agrees. “But I’m not going to.”
And then she kisses me.