Chapter 3
Mara
Bautiste's VIP section glows with intimate lighting. I sit across from Connor Callahan, forcing my smile to appear genuine while my pulse hammers against my ribs.
He's handsome enough, with dark hair swept back, a strong jaw, bespoke suit. But all I can think about is the last time I sat at this restaurant, three years ago, when storm-gray eyes watched me across the table.
"You seem distracted," Connor observes, his tone carrying amusement that makes my skin crawl. "Second thoughts about our evening?"
"Just taking in the atmosphere," I lie smoothly, gesturing toward the restaurant's opulent interior. "It's been a while since I've been somewhere this... civilized."
The irony isn't lost on me. Nothing about this evening is civilized. Not the weapons I can sense beneath Connor's tailored jacket, not the surveillance I know is tracking our every movement, not the trap we're setting for a man who once made me feel like the most precious thing in his world.
A man I warned three days ago, potentially signing my own death warrant. And his.
Connor leans forward, and I resist the urge to lean back. "It's been a while since Paris. Uncle Chase mentioned you stayed in Europe after that. Impressive work in Prague, from what I hear."
The casual reference to my criminal activities should flatter me, a recognition of competence in a world where respect is earned through violence. Instead, it reminds me how deep I've fallen, how far I am from the woman who once believed in things like justice and redemption.
"Prague was... educational," I reply, accepting the wine he pours with hands that remain steady despite my internal chaos. "Sometimes you discover capabilities you didn't know you possessed."
"Such as?" His eyes hold predatory interest that makes my stomach clench with warning.
"Survival. Adaptation. The ability to become someone else entirely when circumstances require it."
Like becoming someone who could sit across from Connor Callahan and pretend attraction while praying the man I once loved stays far away from whatever trap we're constructing.
But even as the thought forms, I know it's futile. Emilio knows I'm back in New York. The question isn't whether he knows I'm here. It's what he plans to do about it.
Connor's hand finds mine across the table, thumb tracing patterns against my knuckles that should feel intimate but instead make my skin crawl. "You know, when Uncle Chase suggested this evening, I wasn't sure what to expect. But you're... intriguing."
I should lean into his touch, and sell the performance Chase has scripted. Should smile and blush and pretend this charming sociopath is winning my heart. Instead, I find myself scanning the restaurant's corners, cataloging exit routes and potential threats with hypervigilance I can't suppress.
"Expecting someone?" Connor asks, following my gaze with sharpening attention.
"Old habits." I force my focus back to his face, projecting calm I don't feel.
His grip tightens on my hand with claiming strength that makes warning bells shriek in my mind. "I should mention that Uncle Chase has positioned security throughout the restaurant. Just in case your... educational experiences attracted unwanted attention."
The casual revelation sends ice through my veins. Not just surveillance, but a coordinated operation designed to ensure whatever happens tonight unfolds according to Callahan planning. If Emilio does appear, he'll be walking into a killing field disguised as romantic ambiance.
I should warn him. Should find some way to send a message, create a distraction, anything to keep him away from whatever elaborate execution Chase has orchestrated.
But the words stick in my throat, professional survival warring with personal loyalty in ways that make rational thought impossible. Warning Emilio would expose me, sign my death warrant, and destroy any chance of completing my most important mission of all.
Not warning him might destroy the only man who ever made me feel like I was worth protecting.
"Shall we order?" Connor suggests, though his attention remains focused on my face rather than the menu. "The kitchen here is exceptional."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: Ladies' room. Now. Come alone.
My blood turns to arctic water. Only one person could have acquired my number, bypassed the encryption, and sent a message that sounded like both invitation and command.
"Excuse me," I manage, standing on legs that feel suddenly unsteady. "I need to powder my nose."
Connor's eyes narrow fractionally. "Of course. Don't be long—I'll miss your company."
The threat wrapped in civility makes my jaw clench, but I force a smile that feels like breaking glass. "Just a few minutes."
The walk to the ladies' room feels like a death march. My heels click against marble with each step taking me closer to a confrontation I've dreaded and anticipated in equal measure. Three years of wondering what I'd say if I saw him again, and now I'm about to find out.
The ladies' room is empty, all soft lighting and expensive fixtures that speak to the kind of luxury money can't always buy. I check the stalls with methodical precision, confirming we're alone before allowing myself to acknowledge the terror and anticipation warring in my chest.
He's here. In this building, close enough to touch, probably watching through cameras I can't see. The realization makes my skin prickle with awareness that has nothing to do with fear.
My body remembers him in ways my mind has tried to forget.
"Hello, Mara."
The voice emerges from shadows I thought were empty, low and familiar and carrying enough controlled menace to make smart people reach for weapons. But I don't. I turn slowly, carefully, giving my nervous system time to process what my eyes are confirming.
Emilio Rosetti stands by the door like a phantom given form.
Three years older, leaner somehow, with new lines around his eyes.
But the fundamental magnetism remains unchanged, the way he occupies space like he owns it, how his attention focuses with laser intensity that makes everything else fade to background noise.
"Emilio." His name emerges breathless, scraped raw by three years of suppressed longing. "You shouldn't be here."
"Shouldn't I?" He moves closer with fluid grace, each step deliberate and controlled. "When the woman who disappeared from my bed three years ago resurfaces in New York, working for my enemies? When she warns me about attacks then shows up at romantic dinners with Callahan operatives?"
The casual way he catalogs my betrayals makes shame burn in my throat, but underneath it coils something more dangerous. Relief. Not just that he's alive, but that he's here, close enough to touch, real instead of memory.
"How did you know I was here?" Though even as I ask, I already know the answer. Surveillance. Always surveillance with him.
"I know everything about your evening, sweetheart." The endearment carries razor edges, familiar affection wrapped in something colder. "Question is: are you here by choice, or is Chase forcing you?"
The direct question catches me off-guard. Not accusation but assessment, giving me room to explain without demanding immediate confession.
"It's complicated," I manage, the words feeling inadequate for the impossible situation I've navigated.
"It always is with you." His smile is a tantalizing blend of beauty and danger. "But we can't afford any complications at the moment. Connor's growing restless, and Chase's security team is beginning to get suspicious about your delay."
"You've been keeping an eye on them too?"
"I've been watching everything." He inches closer, the warmth of his body wrapping around me, and I catch the intoxicating scent of his cologne. "The real question is what happens next."
Before I can answer, footsteps echo in the corridor outside. Heavy, purposeful, moving toward us.
"Mara?" Connor's voice carries through the door. "Everything alright in there?"
Emilio's expression stays the same, but his posture changes—muscles tensing, hands subtly preparing for action. "Answer him," he whispers. "Normal tone. Buy me thirty seconds."
"I'm fine," I say, surprised at how steady I sound. "Just touching up my makeup. Be right out."
"Take your time," Connor replies, though I sense his growing suspicion.
Emilio moves silently to the door, positioning himself for what’s about to happen. My heart races as I realize Connor will enter, and I’ll witness whatever violence unfolds.
I should warn him or create a distraction, but instead, I step aside and let it happen.
The door opens slowly. Connor appears, hand inside his jacket, searching for threats.
"Mara? You seem—"
Emilio moves quickly, closing the gap before Connor finishes. He slams the door and drives Connor into the marble wall with force.
"Connor Callahan," Emilio says, holding him against the wall with practiced ease. "Chase's nephew. European operations coordinator. The man who thinks he's with my woman."
"Your woman?" Connor gasps, blood trickling down. "She's working for us now, Rosetti. Has been for years."
"Has she?" Emilio asks, more amused than angry. "Yet she warned me about Pier 17. Strange behavior for a loyal Callahan asset."
My stomach drops as Connor takes it in, his eyes widening with rage. He had no clue. Chase hid my betrayal from his nephew, using him as bait.
“You lying bitch,” Connor snarls, twisting against Emilio’s grip. “You warned him? You compromised our operation?”
“Mind your language,” Emilio says, tightening his hold until Connor goes still. “We have a lady here.”
“She’s no lady—” Connor starts.
Emilio snaps Connor’s fingers in swift succession. Bones crack, echoing off the close tiled walls. Connor screams.
"I said watch your language," Emilio repeats, tone never changing from conversational calm. "And these fingers? They were getting too close to what doesn't belong to them."
Connor tries to cry out, but Emilio clamps a hand over his mouth, pinching his lip until blood wells.
“This mouth,” Emilio continues quietly, “was thinking of kissing her. Rude.”
The sound of tearing flesh makes my stomach lurch, but I can't look away. This is who Emilio really is beneath tailored clothes and quiet demeanor—not just dangerous. Terrifying.
My heart pounds and heat flows through my body.
“Jesus Christ,” Connor gasps through his ruined mouth, blood on his shirt. “You’re insane.”
“Devoted,” Emilio says, releasing him. “And territorial. Remember that when you're explaining to Chase why this evening ended early.”
Connor staggers, cradling his mangled hand against his chest while blood drips steadily from his split lip. “This isn’t over, Rosetti. Chase will—”
“Will what? Start a war with me?” Emilio laughs. “That rocket has already launched.”
His eyes find mine across the tiled space, making my breath catch.
“Go back to dinner,” he tells Connor without breaking our stare. "Explain to your security team that you slipped in the bathroom. Clumsy accident. These things happen."
"And if I tell them the truth?"
Emilio's smile is winter-cold and absolutely lethal. "Then you'll discover that broken fingers and split lips are just the beginning of what I can do when properly motivated."
Connor flees, leaving a trail of blood on the tiles. The door shuts quietly, enclosing me and Emilio in a space filled with three years of built-up tension.
"You didn't have to do that," I whisper, though my voice lacks conviction. "I could have handled Connor."
"Could you?" He moves closer, close enough to touch but not quite making contact. "Because from where I was watching, it looked like you were struggling with the performance."
"You've been watching all evening?"
"I've been watching you since you set foot in New York."
That’s terrifying. Simply terrifying. So why aren’t I running away? The magnetism of this man is keeping my feet planted on the tiles.
"Emilio..." I start, but words fail me.
"Go back to your table," he says quietly, stepping aside to give me clear path to the door. "Finish your dinner. Sell whatever story will keep Chase's suspicions at bay."
“They’ll kill you. Chase has this place surrounded. Half the diners are his men. You’ll never get away.”
I’ve wanted nothing more than to forget this man for three years, so I should be pleased that he is about to die. It would simplify everything. But I can’t shake the pleading tone from my voice.
His lip twitches in the beginning of a smile. “I didn’t know you still cared.”
Those words sit between us, making the air thick and making it hard to breathe. His cologne is suddenly suffocating, and my thoughts have turned to mush.
“I don’t,” I finally manage to say.
Emilio’s eyes narrow into an expression I’ve never seen on his face. Anger? Disappointment? Barely contained rage?
“Don’t concern yourself with me, sweetheart,” he snarls. “If there’s one thing the Ghost can do, it’s disappear.” I turn to leave, and he grabs my wrist. “You're safe from Callahan, Mara. You've always been safe from everyone except me."
My throat tightens with emotion I can't afford to process. Not here, not now, not when Connor's blood still stains the tiles and Chase's men are waiting just outside.
"This isn't over," I whisper, echoing Connor's words but meaning something entirely different.
"No," Emilio agrees, his smile devastating. "It's just beginning."