Five
Chiara
Ciro begins to walk with me. I take in his casual look, and I definitely like what I see, but I’m not sure why he even stepped in.
The space between us shrinks by half.
“Fine,” I say, lowering my voice so it doesn’t carry. “Lunch.”
Ciro nods once, as if I’ve confirmed something he already knew. We don’t talk as we walk a few short blocks into North Beach, the Italian neighborhood. I’ve avoided this neighborhood, convinced it would be my luck to run into someone I grew up with.
He pulls open a wooden door that just says ristorante.
Inside, the air is thick with heat and garlic. Conversations dip for a second when we enter.
The host straightens immediately. “Benvenuto.”
“Two for lunch, please.” Ciro’s gaze moves slowly through the restaurant, taking in the room with the kind of quiet attention that misses nothing.
“Just a moment.” As we stand here, I’m suddenly not sure this was a good idea.
“Stop fidgeting,” he says.
“I’m not.”
A table is cleared near the back. No one argues. And the host waves us over.
Ciro pulls out a chair for me. I sit carefully, smoothing my hands over my knees to stop them from shaking.
When the server arrives, he doesn’t glance at the menu.
“Two penne arrabbiata,” he says evenly. “And sparkling water, please.”
The server nods and disappears.
I look at him across the table. “You didn’t ask what I wanted.”
He rests his forearms lightly on the edge of the table. “Do you object?” he asks.
I shake my head once. “No.”
He sits back and studies me. “So I take it your name isn’t actually Alyssa.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s my best friend’s name.”
He looks at me waiting.
I sigh. “My name is Chiara.”
The server arrives with sparkling water and fills our glasses. I almost ask for ice before remembering that people who drink this stuff would probably consider that a felony, and today, I’m trying hard enough not to stand out already.
“Why did you lie to the police?” he asks quietly.
The bubbles in my water climb the side of the glass while I drag my thumb through the condensation gathering near the stem. “I didn’t.”
Ciro leans back slightly in the booth, one arm stretched along the top behind me, his attention fixed completely on my face. “He said he was your brother.”
“He says a lot of things,” I answer, keeping my voice even while my stomach tightens.
“He said he knows where you live.”
The words land harder than they should. I set my glass down too fast, the base tapping sharply against the table. “He doesn’t,” I say, too quickly.
Ciro catches it immediately.
“Are you certain?” he asks, quieter now. Not pushing but watching.
The hostess starts speaking to someone near the entrance, her voice dipping lower in that polite way people do around expensive men.
Salvatore.
He pauses inside the doorway long enough to find me across the room.
Then he unbuttons his dark coat with slow, deliberate movements and drapes it over his forearm like he’s settling in for a long evening instead of showing up uninvited.
He doesn’t approach the table. Doesn’t need to. His presence reaches me anyway.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I drop my gaze to the white linen between us before he can read anything on my face.
Ciro sees that too.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” he says softly, lowering his voice so it stays between us.
“I’m not,” I answer, though my throat feels tight.
He leans back slightly, studying me.
Ciro moves his fork beside the plate his attention staying on me even as the restaurant noise swells around us. “How long have you been in San Francisco?”
I trace my thumb through the condensation gathering on my glass. “Not long.”
“Months?”
“Yes.”
The plates arrive hot enough that steam curls between us, carrying the bite of chili and garlic. I focus on the mechanics of eating—cutting, lifting, chewing—because it’s easier than looking toward the door again.
Ciro twirls pasta onto his fork with unhurried precision and then glances at me across the table.
“Do you follow any sports?” he asks.
The question is so normal it almost disarms me.
“No,” I say after swallowing a mouthful of pasta, reaching for my water before the chili heat can settle too far into my throat. “I don’t really have the patience for sports.”
Across from me, Ciro rolls another bite of pasta onto his fork. “None at all?”
The question should feel casual, but there’s something careful underneath it. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person sits across from him.
“I’ve tried,” I say, glancing down at the bowl between my hands. “I just never care who wins.”
The corner of his mouth curls. Not amusement exactly. More like interest. “That’s efficient.”
I huff out a small breath through my nose and rest my fork against the edge of the plate. “What about you?”
“I watch enough to understand the conversation,” he says. “Not enough to build my personality around it.”
That almost makes me smile.
The restaurant hums softly around us, low conversation and clinking glasses filling the spaces between sentences. I glance toward the windows lining the front of the restaurant before looking back at him. “Have you ever been to the de Young?”
Something in his expression loosens a little at the change in subject. “Once on a fifth grade field trip.” He reaches for his water glass. “I think we spent more time in the gift shop than looking at the exhibits.”
“And you’ve never been back?”
“No.” He shrugs. “Maybe at some point.”
“You should.” I twist my napkin absently beneath my fingers. “The sculpture garden’s nice in the morning before it gets crowded.”
His attention settles on me more fully then, steady enough that I become aware of the candlelight catching the edge of his watch and the quiet way he listens instead of waiting to talk. “You’ve been recently?”
“Twice.”
“Alone?”
The question lands softly, but I still hesitate for a second too long. “Usually.”
He nods once like he noticed that too. Of course, he did.
“Where do you like to travel?” he asks after a moment.
“Anywhere,” I answer lightly. Then, before I can stop myself, “Except Italy.”
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
“That’s specific.”
I reach for my glass again mostly to give myself something to do with my hands. “It’s also the only place I’ve really been.”
“You didn’t like it?”
I look at him then. Really look at him. Calm posture. Expensive watch. A man who probably travels because he wants to, not because someone else decided where he belongs.
“It wasn’t very fun,” I say quietly.
Something shifts behind his eyes at that. Not pity. Understanding maybe. Or curiosity he’s smart enough not to push too hard.
Instead, he picks up his fork again. “Have you been to Napa yet?”
“Not yet.” I shake my head. “I keep meaning to.”
“It’s close enough for a day trip.” He twirls pasta slowly against the bowl. “The light changes differently there.”
That catches me off guard enough that I look up too quickly. “You notice the light?”
His gaze holds mine evenly. “I notice most things.”
I believe him immediately, which probably says something unfortunate about me.
He sets his fork down beside the plate and wipes his hands with his napkin before looking back at me. “I’ll take you.”
The offer lands so matter-of-factly it takes me a second to process it. No flirtation. No performance. Just certainty, like he’s already decided it makes sense.
I lean back slightly against the booth. “That seems optimistic.”
“It’s Napa,” he says evenly. “Not a marriage proposal.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, soft enough that I immediately look down at my plate again. “Maybe.”
He nods once like that’s enough for now.
I take another bite of pasta while my chest tightens unexpectedly beneath my ribs. I sit across from him and talk about art and wine like my brother didn’t just remind me I belong to something I ran from.
By the time we finish, Salvatore is gone.
Ciro sets his napkin down with quiet precision. “You’re not going home.”
I lift my eyes to his. “That isn’t your decision.”
“It’s yours.”
A black sedan pulls to the curb outside. I glance at it, and then back at him.
“Where were you planning to go?” he asks.
“To my apartment.”
His head tilts to the side as he challenges me. “And after that?”
I look out the window, buying a second I don’t use. “I don’t know.”
“North,” he says. “Seattle.”
That’s exactly my plan. “You don’t know that.” It comes out sharper than I intend.
“You’re thinking in distance.”
How can he know that?
“You can stay with me for a few days.” He looks at me. “In my guest room of course.”
“You don’t even know me.”
He shrugs, reaching for his water glass. “I know enough. I heard the guy at the farmer’s market say he knew where you lived, and his friend came in here, ate lunch, and then disappeared again. My guess is he’s outside waiting for you now.”
“Guest room,” I say, lowering my voice without softening it. “One night.”
He holds my gaze a moment, as if deciding whether I understand what I’m offering, and then nods. “One night.”
He pays the bill and then leads me out of the restaurant to a waiting Escalade.
I slide into the back seat, shifting across the leather as the door closes and cuts off the street. Ciro gets in beside me, and the car pulls away without hesitation.
The city moves past in the car window—streetlights, glass towers, people crossing intersections with lives that still belong to them. I keep my hands folded tightly in my lap, pressing my fingertips together hard enough to stop the shaking before he notices.
I flatten my palm against the seat beside me, grounding myself in the cool leather.
For a second, I can still feel Massimo’s hand wrapped around my arm at the Farmer’s Market.
—firm enough to bruise without leaving evidence.
Then Salvatore at the market, watching me across rows of fruit and flowers with the patience of someone who already knew I’d run out of places to go.
They found me.
Not because I stopped being careful. Because people like them don’t stop once they decide something belongs to them.
The difference is obvious enough that it makes my chest ache. No one is gripping my arm hard enough to leave bruises. No one has locked the doors or told me where we’re going.
Beside me, Ciro rests one hand against his knee and watches the street through the car window, giving me room instead of pressure. I could ask the driver to pull over. I could open the door at the next red light and walk away. The car slows at an intersection, and I still stay where I am.