25. Emily
25
EMILY
L ucas’s car glides to a stop in front of The Metropolitan Museum of Art. The building stands before us, its grandeur illuminated by soft lights, and yet… there’s no one else here.
The steps that are usually teeming with tourists and locals alike are eerily empty. Sure, it’s early, but there should still be people here.
He didn’t say much during the drive, just told me to wear something nice and that he had a surprise for me. I didn’t ask questions because with Lucas, everything seems to be on a need-to-know basis. But I wasn’t expecting this.
“You said this was your mother’s favorite place,” he says quietly, watching me carefully, gauging my reaction. His voice is softer than I’m used to, almost thoughtful. “I thought you might like to see it again.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, caught off guard by the gesture. I don’t know what surprises me more—the fact that he remembered such a small detail, or the fact that he cared enough to act on it.
“Lucas…” I trail off, searching for the right words. Nothing seems fitting.
He steps out of the car and opens my door for me, offering his hand to help me out. I take it, and the warmth of his skin sends a jolt of awareness through me, something I’ve been trying to ignore since this whole mess began.
His grip is firm, steady, and it pulls me into a world where I’m not just some prisoner—at least, not tonight.
I look up at the towering columns and the wide steps leading to the museum’s grand entrance. It’s strange, standing here with no crowds, no bustling city noise. It feels like we’ve stepped into another world—one that’s been built just for us.
Two other cars stop behind ours, men in suits, unsmiling, watching out for trouble.
“Come on,” Lucas says, his voice low, with that commanding edge he can’t seem to shake. “Let’s go inside.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond, just begins walking, holding my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I follow him, still trying to process what this means—this gesture of his. Is it an olive branch? An apology? Or maybe, just maybe, it’s something else entirely.
The museum doors open for us, and inside, everything is quiet. Too quiet. The echo of our footsteps bounces off marble floors and high ceilings as we move deeper into the gallery, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not thinking about escape. I’m just… here. With him.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
He gives me a rare smile. “I might have paid for exclusive use for the day.”
“Seriously?”
“You want to run around naked? No one to see it.”
“Clothed is fine, thanks.”
A comforting sight stops me in my tracks. The familiar strokes of oil on canvas, the soft hues of light and shadow, bring back memories I haven’t allowed myself to think about in years.
“This was one of my mother’s favorites.” I say. “She loved this place. She trailed me around every floor as a kid, excitedly pointing out every painting, every sculpture, every little detail.”
Lucas stands beside me, his hands in his pockets now, his gaze fixed on the painting. “It has a calming atmosphere,” he says quietly, and for a moment, there’s no edge in his voice. Just sincerity. “Not many places like that left.”
We stand there in silence for a while, the tension between us shifting into something else—something softer, more delicate. I can feel it in the air, that strange mix of emotions that has been brewing between us since the beginning.
We’re from two different worlds, but right now, standing here in the quiet of the museum, those differences feel distant.
“Do you know the history of this piece?” Lucas asks suddenly, his voice taking on a tone I’ve never heard before—almost animated. “It’s from the Dutch Golden Age. The artist was obsessed with light, with capturing how it moves, how it changes everything it touches.”
I turn to look at him, surprised by the passion in his voice. The Lucas I know is cold, controlled, always a few steps ahead of everyone else. But this Lucas, the one standing beside me now, is different. He’s engaged, almost excited as he talks about art like it’s something that matters to him.
I can’t help but smile a little, the tension between us easing. “You know a lot about this.”
He glances at me, and for a moment, there’s something unguarded in his eyes. “I’ve always been interested in it,” he admits. “Art, history, culture... it’s a part of the world that doesn’t change as much as people do. There’s a certain stability in it. Maybe that’s why I like it.”
It’s the most personal thing he’s ever said to me, and it catches me off guard. I don’t know what to say in response, so I just nod.
We move through the museum slowly, stopping here and there as Lucas points out various exhibits, explaining their significance with a level of detail that continues to surprise me.
He’s different—no guards, no business, no mafia talk. Just him, sharing something he enjoys. I’m surprised and fascinated, and I file it away as another piece of the puzzle that is Lucas Caprione.
By the time we reach the main atrium, hours have passed, and the haze of the daytime has faded into a cool early evening. It seemed to fly by.
The air between us feels lighter, almost comfortable. I haven’t felt this way with him since… ever. It’s as though we’ve crossed some unspoken line, reached an understanding without needing to say a word.
I still don’t trust him completely, but I see a side of him that makes me wonder if there’s more to Lucas than the cold, dangerous man I’ve come to know.
“Thank you,” I say softly as we stand at the base of a towering marble statue. The gratitude is genuine, but there’s more behind it—more than just a thank you for the night out. It’s a thank you for showing me a different side of him, for giving me a glimpse of something deeper.
Lucas turns to face me, his expression unreadable, but there’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “You’re welcome,” he says, his voice lower.
For a moment, we just stand there, the silence stretching between us, filled with things neither of us are ready to say. But I feel it—the pull between us, the strange chemistry that we’ve both been trying to ignore.
It’s like standing on the edge of something dangerous, something that could consume us both if we let it. And yet, I can’t bring myself to step back.