Chapter 4
RAFFAELE
She walks in, and every man in the room looks.
I notice because I’m watching the entrance.
Have been for the past fifteen minutes, though I’d never admit it.
The restaurant is mine—built with Conti money but run entirely under my name.
A legitimate business that launders nothing, proves nothing, exists solely so I have somewhere to eat without worrying about who’s listening.
Tonight, it’s hosting a private function. Conti associates. Allied families. A few politicians whose loyalty is measured in offshore deposits. The kind of gathering where deals are made between courses and alliances shift over dessert.
And now, standing in the entrance, Bea Mendez in a red dress that fits like it was made for her.
Because it was. I had it tailored based on the measurements I obtained from her employment file. Height, weight, the dimensions she’d listed on her initial paperwork. Close enough for a competent tailor to work with.
But I didn’t expect this.
The dress clings to curves I’ve been noticing against my better judgment. The neckline is modest enough for the setting but hints at what lies beneath. The slit reveals a length of leg that several men are currently appreciating far too openly.
Her hair is down. I’ve only seen it pulled back—efficient, professional, forgettable. Tonight, it falls past her shoulders in dark waves, framing a face that looks different somehow. Sharper. More dangerous.
Or maybe that’s just the way she’s looking at the room. Taking it in. Assessing threats.
Good instincts.
A possessiveness coils in my chest. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.
I invited her because I needed to understand this fixation. Proximity, I told myself. She’s simply around too much—in my office, at my desk, occupying my thoughts when I should be focused on work. Take her somewhere else, see her in a different context, and the fascination will fade.
I cross the room toward her.
It doesn’t fade.
“Miss Mendez.”
She turns. Those dark eyes meet mine, and I see the moment she registers my presence. A slight tension in her shoulders. A quickening pulse at her throat.
Fear. But controlled. Always controlled.
“Raffaele.”
I place my hand on her lower back—light, guiding—and steer her toward my table. The touch is professional. Appropriate. I’m aware of every inch of contact anyway.
“This isn’t a date,” I clarify as I pull out her chair.
“I didn’t think it was.” She sits. Spine straight. Chin lifted. “You don’t strike me as the dinner-and-flowers type.”
“Good. I’d hate to be bad at my job.”
She sits, arranging the red silk around her legs with more grace than I expected. “And my job? What kind of work requires evening wear?”
“The organization has functions. Galas. Fundraisers.” I take my seat and signal for menus. “I need to know if you can handle them.”
“Handle them. You mean stand there, smile, and look presentable while you conduct business.”
“That’s part of it.”
“And the rest?”
“Pay attention. Listen. Remember what matters.”
She turns a page. “So, decorative and functional.”
I don’t respond.
“Lucky me.”
“Most people would consider it an opportunity.”
“Most people aren’t being forced into it.”
“Fair,” I say.
She glances up at that.
“Don’t worry,” I add. “No one expects you to enjoy it.”
“That’s reassuring.”
The waiter arrives before she can say anything else.
I order for both of us. Sea bass for her. Veal for me.
I nod to the waiter. “Wine?”
She hesitates. “I don’t really—”
“Red or white.”
“Red.”
I order without asking anything else.
She watches that. Files it away.
“Can I ask something?”
“You can ask.”
She looks around the restaurant. “This assessment. Is it actually about galas and fundraisers, or is there something else you’re looking for?”
Direct.
“What would I be looking for?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.” She leans back. “You don’t strike me as the type to do anything without a reason. So, either this dinner means more than I’m seeing, or you’re making choices that don’t fit your usual logic.”
“My usual logic.”
“You eliminate problems. You do not take them to dinner. So, why am I here?”
The question sits between us.
This is usually where I cut the conversation off—before she convinces herself she has any real leverage.
I let it go a little further.
“You think this is irrational.”
“Definitely.” She meets my eyes without flinching. “I’ve seen your calendar. You’re booked from sunrise to midnight most days. And yet you’re here, spending an evening deciding whether I can hold my own at one of your events.”
“You’d be surprised how many people can’t.”
“If you wanted to test me, there are easier ways. A lunch meeting. Coffee with a client. Ways that don’t involve sending a dress to my apartment and bringing me to what is very obviously your restaurant on a Friday night.”
The waiter returns with the wine.
I watch him open the bottle, pour the first taste, then hand me the glass. I go through the motions—lift, taste, nod. Habit. Ritual. A way to keep the room from thinking too hard about what it’s seeing.
When we’re alone again, I set the glass down. “And your point?”
“My point is that this isn’t just about galas.” She holds my gaze. “Either you’re testing something else, or you made a decision that wasn’t entirely strategic. One that’s almost… extracurricular.”
That lands.
Not because she’s wrong. Because she’s close.
Neither of us speaks.
Then I laugh.
Her brows lift a fraction. “What?”
“Nothing.” I pick up my wine glass. “You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No. I didn’t.”
I take a sip of wine. Let the silence build.
“You’re right,” I say finally. “This isn’t purely strategic. But that doesn’t mean it’s irrational.”
“Then what is it?”
“Curiosity,” I say. “You’re an unusual variable. I’m assessing how you operate outside the office.”
“And the dress? The wine? The candlelight?”
“Atmosphere.”
“That’s still an excuse.”
“Maybe.” I set down my glass. “Though I notice you’re not complaining about the dress.”
“It’s a nice dress.”
“It is. You wear it well.” I let the compliment land. “The hair is different too.”
Her hand moves involuntarily toward it, then stops. “It seemed appropriate for the setting.”
“Did you spend time deciding? Considering which style would be most strategic?”
Now she does flush. Just slightly. A hint of pink beneath the carefully applied makeup.
“That’s not—”
“Because that would be an emotional choice, wouldn’t it? Not a logical one. Wanting to look a certain way for a certain context.” I lean back in my chair. “Almost... extracurricular.”
She stares at me.
Then, slowly, her lips curve into an almost-smile.
“Touché.”
The sea bass arrives, providing a natural break in the conversation. We eat in relative silence for a few minutes—her carefully, me with the efficiency of someone who views food as fuel rather than pleasure.
Halfway through dinner, she sets down her fork.
“I have another question.”
“You’re on a roll.”
“Why me?”
I look up.
“You could have made me disappear. I was a liability. I heard something I shouldn’t have. The logical response was elimination.”
“Maybe I like having leverage.”
“Leverage for what? I have nothing.” She shakes her head. “Keeping me alive is a risk. A loose end. You don’t seem like someone who tolerates loose ends.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why?”
The question deserves an honest answer. I’m not sure I have one.
“You were useful,” I say. “More useful alive than dead. The calculation was simple.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. I expect her to back down. To pick up her fork and let the subject drop.
She doesn’t.
“You want to sleep with me.”
I go still.
“That’s… a theory.”
“It’s the only one that makes sense. You keep me close. You send me dresses. You bring me to candlelit dinners and tell me it’s about ‘assessment.’” She tilts her head, watching me with those sharp eyes. “So, why haven’t you?”
“Why haven’t I what?”
“Tried. Made a move. Whatever men like you call it.” Her voice hardens slightly. “Is it some sick fantasy? Making regular girls beg to join your bed instead of just taking what you want? Is that why you rejected the hooker? Too easy? Not enough of a chase?”
Now I do pause.
“You heard that.”
“I thought it was my job,” she counters. “To listen. To observe. To remember details that might prove useful later. Isn’t that what you said?”
Silence stretches. The restaurant hums with quiet conversation, silverware against porcelain, the soft clink of glasses. None of it reaches our table.
She’s pushed further than anyone has in years. Further than most people would dare.
I lean back in my chair. Let her wait.
“You want to know why I haven’t touched you?”
She just holds my gaze.
“Because when I decide to have you”—I let the pause stretch, watch the flush climb her neck—“I will.”
“That’s not a fantasy, Miss Mendez. That’s patience.” I pick up my wine glass. “I’ve killed men for less than what you just said to me. Remember that next time you want to test how far you can push.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It’s supposed to remind you where you are.” I glance toward the entrance. The Moreno delegation is arriving—I can see Victor Senior’s bodyguards scanning the room. “And who you’re sitting across from.”
She follows my gaze. Sees the men in expensive suits filing through the door.
“The Morenos,” I say, my voice shifting back to business. “They’ll want a meeting after dinner. When they come to this table, you do your job.”
“Which is?”
“Listen. Watch. Remember every word those assholes say.” I set down my glass. “Think you can manage that? Or do you need another reminder about your position here?”
Her jaw tightens. But she nods.
“Good.”
The Moreno delegation make their way across the restaurant. I watch them approach—Victor Sr. heading to his reserved table, his son changing course when he spots us.
Beside me, Bea straightens in her chair. Composure back in place. Pulse still jumping at her throat.
Victor Moreno Jr. reaches our table with that easy smile I’ve never trusted.
“D’Amico.” He offers his hand. “Lovely evening.”
I take it. Brief and firm. “Victor.”
“And even better company.” His attention moves to Bea, lingering just long enough to make a point. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Victor Moreno.”
“Bea Mendez.”
He takes her hand, holds it a second longer than necessary. “Bea. Beautiful name.” His eyes move over her—the dress, the hair, the careful composure. “Are you in the legal field as well?”
“She works for me,” I say.
“As...?”
“His assistant,” Bea answers, before I can.
“Assistant.” Victor repeats. “Interesting. D’Amico doesn’t usually bring his assistants to these events.” He glances at me, then back at her. “You must be exceptional.”
“She’s competent.”
“High praise, coming from you.” Victor’s smile doesn’t waver. “Well, Miss Mendez, if you ever get tired of D’Amico’s... intensity, my family’s firm is always looking for talent. We’re more relaxed about hierarchy. Less formal.”
“She’s not interested.”
“Not interested in the position?” He tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Or not permitted to be interested? Unless there’s a more personal reason keeping her here. In which case, I apologize—I didn’t realize your company had policies against that sort of thing.”
He frames it as a question without asking one. Plausible deniability wrapped in silk.
“Raffaele and I are old friends,” Victor continues.
“We go back years. And any friend of his is welcome in my circle.” He pulls a card from his jacket pocket, sets it on the table in front of her.
“My personal chauffeur is outside. After the event, if you’d like a ride home, he’s at your disposal. Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”
I don’t move.
I’ve already given him more than I should.
Bea looks at me. Waiting.
I give her nothing.
“That’s very generous,” she says, turning back to Victor. “Thank you. I’ll take you up on that.”
There it is.
My grip tightens around the glass. I don’t react.
“When would it be appropriate for me to leave?” she asks.
Victor spreads his hands, deferring. “That’s up to your host. I wouldn’t want to pull you away from official business.”
Both of them look at me.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I say. My voice is even. Completely empty of the reaction burning in my chest.
Bea pushes back her chair and stands. Smooths the red silk over her hips with a motion that draws Victor’s eye exactly as intended.
“Then I’ll go now.” She picks up the card. “I’ve already had dinner with Mr. D’Amico.”
Not Raffaele.
Not anymore, it seems.
“I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Victor’s enjoying this. He doesn’t even bother hiding it.
“Marco will take care of you,” he promises, nodding toward the entrance.
Bea inclines her head and walks toward the exit.
I stand.
“Leaving so soon?” Victor asks.
“Enjoy the event, asshole.” Low enough for him alone.
His smile doesn’t falter. “So far, I definitely am.” He tilts his head. “Will you be long? Nico should be here soon. Wouldn’t want to keep your brother waiting.” A beat. “Oh wait, that’s not right, is it? What do we call it when someone’s raised like family but isn’t quite? I always forget.”
I don’t answer. Don’t look at him. Just walk toward the entrance where Bea is about to step through the door, the chauffeur a few paces behind her.
My hand finds her shoulder before she can leave.
“Ms. Mendez.”
She turns. The entrance is busy—guests arriving, coats being checked, eyes everywhere.
“Mr. D’Amico.” She holds my gaze. “Tonight was adequate. But I think I should be leaving now.”
I drop the formality.
“I don’t want to see you talking to Victor again.”
“Why? Part of the job, too? Is there a logical reason my job of ‘listening’ should have a blacklist?”
“You’re walking on thin ice, Bea.”
She steps back, just out of reach.
“You wanted a chase,” she says. “You’re getting one.”
Then she turns and walks out.
The driver follows.
The door closes behind them.
I stay where I am for a second longer than necessary.
Then—
Fuck.
Victor saw enough.
It wouldn’t be difficult for him to put the pieces together.
The timing. The interruption. The fact that I followed.
That’s all it takes.
What the hell, let him guess.
Even I’m not sure how this ends anymore.
I pull out my phone. Dial without looking.
“Black sedan. Just left the restaurant. Moreno’s driver, woman in the back. Follow it. Stay out of sight. Let me know where she ends up.”
The line clicks dead.
I pocket the phone and turn back toward the event.
The restaurant is still full. Conti associates. Allied families. Politicians with their hands out. Victor Moreno is back at his father’s table, saying something that makes the old man laugh.
Hours left. Hands to shake. Assholes to tolerate.
I straighten my jacket and walk back into the room.
Somewhere across the city, Bea Mendez is riding in my enemy’s car, thinking she’s won something tonight.
Maybe she has.
I need to rethink this whole fucking thing.