Chapter 10 DAN #2
I move fast, but not too fast, jogging past a group of tourists and giving chase like a man with a moral compass. I don’t have one, but she doesn’t need to know that. Not yet.
He cuts left. I follow. He tosses the bag into the bushes like we planned and keeps running. I stop, scoop it up, and make my way back to the bench like I’m the hero.
She’s still standing, wide-eyed and clutching her book, chest rising and falling as if she’s run the length of the Roman Forum.
Her wide eyes meet mine for the first time.
Not just from across a park. Not through binoculars.
Not as part of the job. This time, it’s real.
And it hits me like a bullet. She searches my face as I approach, bag in hand.
Bright blue innocent eyes stare into mine, uncertain but trusting, and my heart stutters quietly, but irrevocably.
From this moment on, all I want to do is take care of this girl. Steal her away from her corrupt family and shield her from the horrors of this world.
I keep my pace steady, masking the sudden twist in my gut. “Yours, I believe.” I hold it out, my voice smooth and measured.
She blinks, then glances at the bag like it might disappear if she touches it. “Come hai—?”
I offer a soft smile, the kind I know disarms. “I must’ve spooked him. He practically threw the bag at me.”
She takes it from me with both hands, fingers brushing mine for a second too long. Her touch is soft. Warmer than I expected. “Grazie,” she says, breathless.
“No need to thank me. Just glad I was nearby.” I’ve been nearby for weeks. Watching. Waiting. Planning.
She brushes the hair from her face, cheeks pinkening, eyes darting to her book still clutched to her chest. “Non sapevo cosa fare.”
I chew on the inside of my mouth, trying to figure out the words. My Italian is a little rusty.
She must sense my confusion. “Scusa. I didn’t know what to do.” She says the words slowly, as if trying to remember her English, but she speaks it fluently. “It all happened so fast. I’m not good at running.”
“Yeah, well. You shouldn’t have to know what to do.” I glance around, scanning the area even though I know we’re clear. “People like that prey on soft targets.”
She frowns. “Soft?”
Shit. Wrong word.
“I mean…” I shrug, slipping my hands into my pockets to keep them from clenching. “You’re young. Alone. You don’t exactly look like you’d punch a guy in the throat.”
Her lips twitch. “You don’t know me.”
“No. I don’t.” I let the words settle, let her fill the space between us. Her shy smile filters its way into my chest and that’s when I feel the first crack.
“You’re British,” she says, like it explains something she’s been trying to figure out.
I raise a brow. “And you’re observant.”
Her cheeks colour as she looks down, but she’s still smiling.
“Rome’s not used to angels with English accents,” she murmurs under her breath, maybe not even meaning for me to hear it.
But I do. And I can’t contain my smile.
“I’m Rose,” she says, glancing up through thick lashes, her wide smile matching my own. “Rosetta, really. But everyone calls me Rose.”
Of course they do. Dolce Rosa. Like a beautiful flower in full bloom and ready to be plucked.
“Dan.” I don’t offer my last name. She doesn’t ask. Her innocence is the kind that doesn’t even question. And it makes something raw stir inside me. Protectiveness, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.
She lifts her bag and lets it drop to the bench beside her, but she keeps hold of the handle. “Do you… do you want to sit?”
It’s working. The plan. The setup. The story I told Dom about staying detached—not so much.
I nod to the gelato cart. “Want an ice cream?”
Her smile is brighter than the sun gleaming down on us, or maybe it just feels that way as we walk the few steps to the cart.
I pull out my wallet, but she reaches into her bag. “Let me, signore.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She bats my hand away and speaks in Italian to the vendor and hands him money before I protest.
I lean back on the railing next to the cart and watch her lift the cone from the rack and lick at the pink strawberry gelato.
She lifts another cone and thanks the vendor before handing it to me. “Strawberry for me and Pistachio for you.”
“You didn’t have to get me one.” I take the cone from her as green gelato drips onto my hand. “You picked for me?”
“It’s the least I can do after you saved my bag. And you just look like a pistachio guy.” She licks a drip from the side of her pink scoop as we both absentmindedly walk along the path that leads to the rose garden.
“Oh, really?” I chuckle as I lick the rich nutty flavour which is actually one of my favourites. I’m impressed. “What is a pistachio guy?”
She tilts her head sideways, studying me with a smile. “Mysterious. Complicated—”
I quirk a grin. “Nutty.”
She giggles. “I was going to say kind.”
I go still, her words lodging in my chest.
She shouldn’t be so open. So trusting. So easy to like.
So fucking easy to hurt.
Her cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink, matching the roses behind her.
“And what does strawberry say about you?” I already know the answer. She’s sweet like sugar and all things nice.
She bites the top of her cone and smiles through it. “I’m a hopeless romantic.”
“Is that what you’re reading?” I nod to the book in her hand. “Romance?”
She holds the tattered book down so I can read the title. Romeo and Juliet.
The irony.
I raise a brow. “Bit dramatic, no?”
She shrugs, not looking up. “So is life.”
I lick my ice cream and lean in to whisper, “Spoiler alert. They both die.”
“I know how it ends.” She jabs me in the ribs with her elbow. “Still worth reading.”
“You think falling for someone you’re supposed to hate is romantic?”
She looks up with sparkling eyes. “Don’t you?”
My smile falters. I hold her gaze for a beat too long. Falling for someone you’re supposed to hate is reckless, but as I gaze into her blue irises, I can see myself falling hard, diving headfirst into the deep pools of her eyes and never wanting to come up for air.
“Maybe that’s the only love that means anything. When you choose it anyway.” Her words settle between us, heavy and soft all at once. She looks down at the book and continues to lick at her gelato as if she didn’t just knock the wind out of me.
I just watch her, mesmerised by this strawberry-eating, Shakespeare-reading girl who’s dangerously close to getting under my skin.
We sit on the low wall facing the lake, knees brushing now and then. She’s already halfway through her strawberry cone, licking delicately around the edge like it’s some kind of art form. I’m holding my pistachio.
“Not a fan?” she asks, nodding at my gelato.
I shrug, smirking. “I like to take my time.”
“You’ve barely touched it.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
She narrows her eyes, playful. “You’re scared.”
I lift a brow. “Of what? Nuts?”
“No. Of admitting I got your flavour right.”
I huff out a laugh and take another lick. It’s cold and creamy, rich with that subtle nuttiness that sneaks up on you.
She watches me like it’s some kind of test. Her grin is smug. “Told you. You’re totally a pistachio guy.”
“Better than strawberry. All sugar, no bite.” But I’m already addicted to the way she licks the cone.
She squints at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m teasing or insulting her. “You’re just jealous I taste better.”
I blink, my mind picturing way too many things it shouldn’t.
Her mouth forms an O, gelato covering her lips, and I want to know if she tastes just as sweet. “I meant—my gelato tastes better. Obviously.”
I grin. “A rose by any other name would taste as sweet.”
She laughs, full and bright, nudging her shoulder into mine. “It’s smell as sweet.”
“I know what it is.”
“You studied Shakespeare?” She licks her cone again, slower this time—maybe intentionally, maybe not. Either way, I feel it low and dangerous in my gut.
“I’ve read a little.” I gaze into her eyes and remember the famous lines from the book.
“Tell me something else. Something real,” she says after a pause. “Not gelato or Shakespeare related.”
I glance down at my cone, then at her. “Okay. Real? You should be more careful out here.”
She blinks, surprised by the shift in tone. “Why?”
“Because you trust too easily.” I keep my gaze on hers. “And not everyone’s here to return your bag.”
Her smile fades just slightly. She shifts under my stare.
“But you are,” she says, fiddling with the handle wrapped around her elbow.
I look up at the sky, licking the edge of my gelato before it drips. “Yeah. I am.”
For now.
A plane flies above us in the cloudless sky and I watch as it leaves a trail behind.
Rose kicks her legs against the wall, her cotton dress rippling in the light breeze. “I’ve always wanted to fly.”
Back in the present, I open my eyes to the clouds floating below. The plane levels out and so does my breathing. I relax my hands against the armrest and search the aisle for Rose.
My shoulders drop when I see her busying herself, serving passengers at the front of the plane. She’s more sure of herself than she was back then, more assertive and hardened by this cruel world. She was always soft petals wrapped in poison. Beautiful. Untouchable. Dangerous.
And I was stupid enough to think I could touch her and not bleed.
She was an easy target back then. It didn’t take much to befriend her. I was a knight in shining armour, like in one of her romance novels. She fell for it too. We spent the rest of the day together.
It became a regular meeting spot. We’d walk through the park, boat on the lake, and tour the gallery. She was part of a mission, but I fell hard, prolonging our task of gathering the intel Dom and I needed to finish the job.
Revenge had plagued us both since we were kids. We were never gonna rest until we had our vengeance. But spending time with our enemy softened my hardened heart. She found her way through the cracks and she’s been there ever since.
I recite her favourite book, Romeo and Juliet.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
It’s her. It’s always been her.