Chapter 8 Gabriella #2
I look down. There's a small switchblade lying near where we fell, probably dropped when I tackled her. Shit! She dropped the knife. I reach down and grab it before someone else does, then slip it into my purse.
"Sofia." Luca's voice is carefully controlled. "We need to talk."
He quickly takes me to a café nearby because apparently that’s what civilized people do after public chaos. Luca orders an espresso. I order a bottled water because my hands are still shaking and if I get espresso my soul may vibrate out of my body.
When the drinks arrive, I down half the bottle and feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. He doesn’t speak at first. He just watches me drink. Every time I swallow, his gaze drops to my throat like he’s cataloging it with the same thoroughness he used on my body last night.
“So,” he says finally, low and conversational. “Explain.”
“What do you mean?” I aim for innocent. “Explain what? That I prefer water over espresso? I’m hot and the caffeine will make me shaky.”
“You chased a thief through a crowd and put her on the ground like you’ve done it before.”
He pauses to see if I’ll speak. I don’t.
“Then you cursed and threatened her with words Tony doesn’t use in front of his kids,” he continues.
I try righteous indignation. “She’s a thief! She stole from me. I had every right to go after her.”
“You reacted like tackling a pick-pocket was muscle memory. You didn’t hesitate…at all.”
“I was mad, okay. My phone has everything on it, my photos, contacts. Can you imagine if you lost your phone? How mad you would be?”
“We have two bodyguards who could’ve handled it.”
I glance over at Tony who is trying to look inconspicuous while standing awkwardly beside a potted plant. “Oh really?” I lean closer and lower my voice. “Your bodyguards need to be in better shape if they plan to catch a pick-pocket in a foot race.”
“You might be right,” he admits. “But that still doesn’t explain how you were able to catch her.”
“I’ve taken self-defense classes,” I explain.
Luca's eyes narrow. "What kind of classes?"
"Krav Maga. Street fighting techniques." I'm in full bullshit mode now. "The instructor said women needed to know how to handle real situations, not just gym scenarios. Chokeholds, kidnappings, that kind of thing. Luckily, I’ve never had to use it until today."
Luca studies me for a long moment. "Does this self-defense instructor have a name?"
"Giuseppe. Giuseppe..." I scramble for a last name that sounds believable. "Salvatore."
"Your instructor has the same last name of one of the most powerful families in Italy?"
"Common name," I say with a shrug that I hope looks casual.
Good luck trying to find a fake Krav Maga instructor named Giuseppe.
He takes another sip of espresso. "What gym was this at?"
"Oh, it closed down. Few years ago. I hated to see it go. He taught me a lot."
The silence stretches between us. He’s picking apart my story, looking for holes. There are plenty to find.
"You know what I find the most interesting?" he says finally.
"What?"
He leans in, forearms to the little marble table, the threat not in his volume but in the space he occupies. My knee brushes his under the table; he doesn’t move away. If anything, he presses, like he’s reminding me who’s bigger and stronger.
"You didn't look scared. Not once. Most people, they get their phone stolen, they panic. They scream for help. They freeze up." His eyes are locked on mine. "And yet, you seemed like you were enjoying yourself."
He's not wrong. The chase, the tackle, the confrontation. It felt fucking good. It felt like being myself again instead of playing Sofia's careful, constrained version of womanhood.
“No, that’s crazy!” I say, waving a hand at him. “She startled me, that’s all. It caught me by surprise. And for the record, it wasn’t fun. I was running on pure adrenaline, I guess.”
It was fun to chase and catch her, but I should probably let the next one go if it happens again.
“Does adrenaline make you forget to be careful when there’s a knife?”
“I didn’t see a knife until Tony pointed it out.”
“Would it have made a difference if you’d seen it before?”
I blink at him. “Probably not.” I stand up abruptly. “You know what? I’d like a drink.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Sofia doesn't drink heavily. Sofia certainly doesn't declare she needs a drink mid-afternoon.
Luca frowns at me. "A drink?"
"I mean..." I scramble to cover. "A glass of wine. With another snack. That was scary, and I think... I think some wine would help me calm down. In fact, I’m sure it would. Care for a glass?"
It's a weak save and we both know it.
"Sure," he says slowly. "Let's order wine."
He signals to Paolo, who comes over immediately.
"Get us a table in a café somewhere quiet," Luca tells him. "Somewhere we can talk."
Paolo nods and heads off to find a restaurant. Tony stays close, scanning the crowd like he expects more pickpockets to materialize.
As we wait, I catch Luca studying me again. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, cataloging every inconsistency, every slip-up, every moment where I've been more Gabriella than Sofia.
"This instructor of yours," he says conversationally. "Giuseppe Romano. Did he teach a lot of women?"
For fuck’s sake!
He’s like a dog with a bone, not letting go of this.
"A few. It was a small, mostly private operation."
"And he's the one who taught you to tackle people?"
"Among other things."
"Like what?"
I realize I'm digging myself deeper with every answer. "Basic self-defense. How to get out of holds. That kind of thing."
"Pressure points?"
"A few."
"How to disarm someone with a knife?"
“No, we learned how to twist around if someone grabs our hair from behind or wraps their arm around our neck. Why are you interrogating me like I’m a criminal instead of her?"
"Because that girl had a knife, and you took her down anyway. Either you're incredibly lucky, or you knew exactly what you were doing."
The truth is, I did know what I was doing.
I spotted the knife the moment she pulled it, saw how she was holding it, knew she was more scared than dangerous. But Sofia wouldn't know any of that. And I didn’t expect her to drop it.
"I didn't see a knife," I lie. “I told you that before.”
"Huh." He drains his espresso. "Because Tony says it was pretty obvious. Says any smart person would have backed off when they saw it."
"I’m sure he’s right. Maybe I'm not that smart because I didn’t notice it."
"Or maybe you're a lot smarter than you're letting on."
Paolo returns before I can respond, leading us to a small trattoria with outdoor seating. He chooses a table with clear sight lines and no blind spots, positioning himself and Tony at nearby tables like they're just having lunch too.
Luca orders wine without consulting me. Something expensive, probably. A brand of wine Sofia would appreciate. When I’d really love a beer.
When it arrives, I take a larger gulp than I should. The alcohol burns going down, but now I really do need something to steady my nerves.
"Better?" Luca asks.
"Getting there."
"Good. Because I've got more questions."
Of course he does.
"Fire away," I say, trying to sound casual.
“Why were you taking self-defense classes?”
“I was scared and I hoped they would give me confidence.”
“Did they?”
“What do you think?”
“Maybe they did.” He sets his cup down. His hand covers mine on the table, heavy and warm, pinning it there. Not affectionate. Possessive. “Or maybe you’re just not telling me everything.”
If I were smart, I’d become my sister now. Flustered, apologetic. Instead, the part of me that ran down a pink-haired thief wants to show him how tough I am.
“I got my phone back,” I say. “And no one was hurt. I’d call that a win all the way around.”
“You could’ve gotten hurt,” he says. “That bothers me more than the phone.”
The words land where they’re supposed to. He doesn’t take his hand off mine. The pad of his thumb presses once into the inside of my wrist like he’s measuring the speed of my lies.
“When we leave the restaurant, stay with me,” he says, quiet enough that it’s just for us. “Don’t make me chase you. You don’t run again, not in a crowd, not in front of my men. If you want something handled, you tell me and it will be.”
I could fight him. I could say no one owns me. But the way he’s looking at me, as if last night is still on his tongue and he’s not done with me short-circuits my better judgment.
“Fine,” I say, equally quiet. “But if someone grabs my ass, I’m breaking their fingers.”
A beat then the edge of his mouth does that fractional curve again. “We’ll make exceptions for broken fingers. As long as that doesn’t include mine.”