Chapter 5 Surveillance
SURVEILLANCE
Caitríona
The apartment is too damned quiet, the walls closing in on me. It’s been three days since the gun went off into the ceiling instead of my target, three days of lying low. Waiting. Of replaying that moment at the Velvet Vault over and over again. I can still feel the recoil phantom over my shoulder.
I can still hear the echo of Matteo’s voice in my head, low and teasing, like the bastard didn’t have a gun pointed at him.
The memory burns under my skin, clinging like smoke I can’t scrub off.
I shove it down and pull on my leather jacket.
If I sit in this apartment any longer, I’ll crawl out of my own skin.
So I force myself to move.
The lock clicks as I step into the narrow stairwell, the faint smell of oil and dust hitting my nose. And there he is, Sean Murphy. He’s leaning against the banister like he’s been waiting for me, arms crossed and smirk already in place.
“Heading out, McKenna?” His Dublin lilt is lighter than Belfast, easier on the ears. He’s all cocky grin and lazy posture, but his eyes are sharp and quick. They’re trying to take me apart piece by piece.
I school my face into calm. “Just grabbing some lunch.”
Then, I slide my palm into my jacket, fingers grazing the pack with my micro-ear and a cheap lighter I’ll never use. I watch Sean watch the stairwell for a second, checking the exit routes while pretending to smooth my sleeve. It’s habit, make the mundane cover the dangerous.
One brow arches. “Lunch, huh? Alone?”
“Yes.” Short. Clipped. The less I say, the better.
Sean pushes off the banister, closing the space between us in that way men like him do. It’s casual enough to be brushed off but deliberate enough to make a point. His leather jacket creaks as he folds his arms, head tilted like he’s trying to read the truth behind my sunglasses.
I don’t give him shite.
“You’ve been in New York a few days, and I haven’t seen you eat a thing.” His grin deepens. “Unless you’ve been sneaking out on me already?”
I force a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Good thing I wasn’t offering. I was offering my company.” He flashes that wolfish grin again. “And maybe the best sandwich in Manhattan.”
“No.” My answer is immediate, maybe too sharp. “I work better alone.”
His smile falters just enough to show me I hit a nerve, but he recovers quickly. “Suit yourself, gorgeous. Just don’t get lost.”
I sidestep him, boots clicking on the stairs.
“It’s been almost a week since you arrived, McKenna. When are you going to make your move?”
Right. I almost forgot he doesn’t know about my first failed attempt.
“Don’t rush me, Murphy,” I call out over my shoulder. “I know what I’m doing.” I don’t look back because if I do, he’ll see too much.
Because the truth is, I’m not going for lunch.
I’m going to see Matteo.
Surveillance, I tell myself. Just a look. Just to map his patterns, learn his routes. It’s the logical prep work of an assassin. But the truth coils deeper. Darker. I need to see him again.
To remind myself of what he is, cocky, dangerous, and untouchable. Not the boy who kissed me under Sicilian stars.
Because if I don’t keep that picture sharp in my mind, if I keep slipping into memory, I’ll never pull the trigger. And if I don’t pull the trigger, there will be no mercy, no second chances. Tiernan Quinlan will kill me himself.
So I walk faster, out into the noise and grit of Manhattan, my pulse already ticking like a countdown.
By the time I make it uptown, the afternoon sky is split between glass towers and the haze of spring. Midtown hums with its usual chaos of horns blaring, steam rising from grates, and men in suits moving like a school of sharks. I tuck myself into the flow, head down, just another shadow.
And then I see him.
Matteo Rossi.
My heart stutters. I press my hand over the traitorous flutter and picture the tattoo inked over my flesh. The orange blossom. The pretty, frilly lettering. Then I draw in a steadying breath.
He exits the revolving doors of Gemini Tower, the mirrored glass gleaming behind him. His tall frame cuts through the swarm like he owns the pavement. Maybe he does. In his world, the Rossis own everything.
I map the building exits mentally, the revolving doors, two cab zones on the north side, a bike rack that covers the alleyway. If I need to check for a tail, I’ll buy something at the corner deli; if I need a bullet, I could stash a gun in the hollow of the bench behind the café.
My eyes trace over him with the detachment of a professional. Or so I force myself to believe. It’s just a job, Cat. Like any other.
I continue my careful inspection, cataloguing all the details like Donal taught me.
Height: Six-one, maybe six-two, broad shoulders, lean muscle under that tailored charcoal suit.
Gait: Easy confidence, but purposeful. His head moves just enough to clock his surroundings without being obvious.
Tell: His right hand twitches once at his side before he shoves it into his pocket. Impatience. Restlessness.
Matteo Rossi. Twenty-three years old. Son of Nico Rossi and nephew of Marco Rossi, Co-CEO’s of Gemini Corp.
Officially, Matteo serves as Chief Technology Officer of the corporation.
Unofficially, he’s the heir apparent. Because Alessandro, the oldest, won’t take the throne.
Doesn’t want it. Which leaves it all to Matteo.
He’s the cyber genius of the family. He built their security systems and keeps their money moving through shadows no cop could ever follow. When he’s not behind a screen, he’s helping Alessandro run that den of sin, the Velvet Vault.
A hacker. A club rat. A mafia prince.
And my target.
Tugging on my hat so it sits low on my brow, I shadow him easily, blending with the crowd as he heads west. His pace is unhurried, like he knows no one would dare come for him in broad daylight. Arrogant bastard.
He slips into a café on the corner, one of those trendy glass-walled places with succulents in the windows and overpriced pastries. I cross the street diagonally, keeping a delivery truck between us, and slide into a seat on the patio across from the entrance.
Through the wide window, I watch him. He orders, then chooses a booth near the back. Alone at first. He checks his phone, leans back, and runs a hand through his hair. Casual. Too casual.
Then she arrives.
A woman. Blonde, ponytail and a visor. Long legs, in trendy yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder top, moving like she belongs here. My stomach knots instantly. I shift forward in my chair, pulse spiking.
She slides into the booth across from him, and his face lights up.
Not business. Personal. He leans in, talking and smiling that smile I used to know in a different country, in a different lifetime.
Moving closer, his thumb brushes the corner of her mouth, wiping away some crumbs.
I’m instantly transported to that gelateria, my favorite ice cream shop in Taormina.
The first time Matteo kissed me began with a similar move, him thumbing away a smudge of chocolate gelato.
A hot wave of something… a tangle of jealousy and shame, slides into my throat and tastes like bile.
My fingers curl into fists until my nails cut into my palms. Is he going to fuck her and leave her too?
Damn him. He’s mine to kill. Mine. And yet here he is, laughing with some blonde doll like life’s a fucking fairytale.
I shift my angle, eyes narrowing, until the light catches her face beneath the visor.
Not a stranger, you idiot. It’s Serena Valentino, his cousin.
Relief slams into me so hard it almost knocks the air from my lungs. My jealousy curdles into shame, twisting bitter at the back of my throat. I should have known. Matteo’s not stupid enough to meet a lover here, not in broad daylight, not when he knows he’s being targeted.
Still, what I see next throws me.
They’re talking… wedding plans? The big Valentino-Ferrara wedding in the fall is no secret.
All the most infamous families of Manhattan and beyond have been invited.
I can’t hear much through the glass, but I don’t need to.
Serena’s waving swatches around, pointing to her phone, gesturing like a general directing a battle.
And Matteo is listening. Not just listening.
Engaged. Unlike my own fiancé who wanted nothing to do with our wedding planning.
I shove down the traitorous thought, burying it deep. None of it matters anymore.
Matteo is still nodding, grinning, and occasionally teasing her in a way that makes her swat at him. He’s… sweet. Patient.
He’s not the ruthless Rossi enforcer I’ve been taught to hate. Not the cocky cybercriminal who kills without hesitation.
It disorients me.
Because I know ruthless Matteo. I know cocky Matteo. I’ve replayed that version of him in my head like a mantra, the villain I need him to be to put a bullet between his green eyes.
But this? This is the boy from that summer. My first love. My first everything. He was the one who whispered promises under the moonlight. The one who pressed a kiss to my belly and told me I’d never be alone.
My pulse stutters. I grip the edge of the table until my knuckles ache.
This isn’t who he is, I remind myself. This is an act. A facade. He’s charming, yes. That’s what makes him dangerous. My father, Donal, Tiernan, they were all right. Men like Matteo are poison wrapped in silk.
He pauses mid-sentence and looks up. Not at me, but down the sidewalk. For a heartbeat our gazes don’t meet, but his head turns in a way that has me wondering if he’s actually seen me.
Still, I don’t move. And as I watch him laugh with his cousin, my resolve wavers.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all because I’m not sure who I am when I look at him anymore.