Chapter 7 #2
She pauses. Looks up. Something soft flickers across her face, like she’s deciding whether to accept the compliment or tease me for it.
“Careful,” she says. “If you keep talking like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re a nice guy.”
I lean back in my chair, letting my gaze linger.
“And if I am?” Which, of course, is true to a point.
I am a nice guy. I work hard, I play by the rules most of the time at work and in my family, but there is a line.
Like all my brothers, we are perfectly content until someone crosses that line, and then all bets are off.
I know I have it in me—the revenge, the fury that comes forth if something I care about is threatened.
“Then I’ll have to reevaluate my whole opinion of men who do one-night stands. Perhaps there’s absolution for them after all. So far, you’re giving those guys a good name.”
I laugh under my breath. “If I recall, I don’t believe I forced you into my car.”
“No, you didn’t,” she says immediately. “But you did use your sexy-as-hell face to tempt me to misbehave in a way that I wouldn’t normally. In a way that I never have before.”
I freeze at her words, remembering back to that night, of showering when I returned home, and the blood on my cock.
I should have worn a condom, but in the heat of the moment, shit happens.
But the blood? I’d thought the force with which I’d taken her had caused a little too much friction, but was I wrong?
“Hang on.” The blood pumps loudly in my ears at the realization that I’d possibly been her first. That she’d trusted me enough to give me the honor.
I shouldn’t be trusted with something so precious.
I could turn on a dime—I knew it down in my bones.
I was as ruthless as my father and my siblings when the need arose.
But this… “You were a virgin?” I pause, can feel the frown between my brows. “Was I your first?”
She shrugs and bites into a buttered piece of bread the waiter brought over to the table. “That’s unimportant semantics.” Her lips twitch as if she knows that’s not true at all. “Also, I’m pretty sure you didn’t even know I was, so what does it matter?”
Oh, it matters. It means I was her first, and knowing that makes me want to be her last.
The waiter returns, pausing our conversation, and asks if we want wine. Dallen’s gaze darts to me, questioning.
“Give us a bottle of your best white,” I suggest to the waiter, watching her, and no one else.
“Of course, sir. I’ll source that now.”
I meet the waiter’s gaze. “Excellent.”
“And have you decided on your meals this evening?”
We order. Decide on a shared appetizer because Dallen suggests it, and I want to please her.
I like that she’s comfortable around me.
I may dress nicer than most, have money to burn, and a good job, but my appearance can sometimes be a little intimidating.
My height, the tatts, the sharp jaw, and cold gaze.
These features, however, don’t seem to bother her.
She doesn’t seem to notice them at all. I like that. I like it more than I thought I would.
She rests her forearms on the table and watches me for a moment. “So, tell me about you.”
The question is casual, like she’s asking about the weather.
But it isn’t off-the-cuff. Not for me. I’m used to conversations where I know the rules.
Where everyone is either trying to impress me, use me, or avoid offending me.
Dallen doesn’t do any of that. She’s just curious.
Like she assumes the truth is an option.
“I work,” I say, intentionally vague.
She snorts. “Wow. Riveting.”
I give her a look. “I’m captivating, I know.”
Dallen’s smile widens, and her eyes dip—quick and instinctive—to my mouth. The memory of her lips on mine flashes hot and immediate, like my body never got the memo that we’re in public now.
She clears her throat, then tries again. “Okay, fine. What do you do for work?”
I’m about to answer—my job isn’t a secret, but I also don’t want her knowing my surname, something she’ll surely learn if she knows my employment.
I don’t want to be vague, but I also need more time before she forms her opinion of me.
I need her to get to know me first, before I’m tainted by my own family’s history.
But just as I’m about to disclose my occupation, movement near the restaurant door catches my attention.
It’s subtle at first. Just a shift in the atmosphere, like the air in the room dims.
A man walks in with a purposeful stride, dressed in something that looks expensive but not in a showy way. Dark hair. Clean shave. A watch that costs more than most people’s monthly rent. He doesn’t scan the room like a tourist. He scans it like a predator.
My gaze locks on to him before I can stop myself.
A Romero.
Not Matteo—Matteo is gone. But the eyes are the same. The bone structure. The way the shoulders sit back like the world is supposed to move around him.
My jaw tightens.
The guy looks away, no emotion on his face, nothing to give away that he knows, in turn, who I am.
But that doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve already clocked me from the door.
He could’ve picked this place because he knew I’d be here.
That a Moretti is one of the owners. Or he could be here for someone else, and I’m just overly paranoid after Lucien offed Matteo.
He slides onto a stool at the bar, leans in toward the bartender, and says something with a smile. Normal. Casual. Like he’s just another guy getting a drink before dinner.
I don’t buy it.
“Stephen?” Dallen says, and I realize I’ve gone still and silent. “Hey. Are you okay?”
I blink, dragging my attention back to her. Her brows are pinched together, concern mixing with curiosity.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just…thinking.”
“About what?”
I want to tell her the truth. That there’s a Romero in the room and my brother’s name lives like a ghost in their family tree now that he’s married to Briar.
That this could be nothing, or it could be the start of something ugly.
That I’m doing math in my head. Exits, angles, who could be with him, who might be outside.
But the truth is a trap. Once you say it, you can’t unsay it. And I don’t know what Dallen would do with it.
She studies me, unimpressed by my vague answer. “Thinking about me?”
I almost smile at the out she offers me. “Always.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe me, but her mouth betrays her—softening, pleased. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Then let’s talk about something less…mysterious. I’ll go first and talk about my career. Since you dodged it.”
“Go ahead,” I say, even as my attention keeps snagging toward the bar. The Romero lifts his glass. Takes a sip. Laughs at something the bartender says.
Dallen tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m a lawyer.”
The words hit like a glass dropped on marble. I keep my face neutral, but inside, everything shifts.
“A lawyer,” I repeat carefully.
“Mm-hmm,” she says. “Corporate litigation. Mostly. Sometimes personal cases, if they’re the right fit. But I’m usually buried in contracts and disputes.”
I nod. My throat feels tight. Not because she’s a lawyer.
Because of what that means if this—whatever this is—becomes real.
The Moretti name doesn’t come with clean edges.
Not fully. Not even now, when we’re “legitimate.” There are always shadows.
Always something that doesn’t fit neatly into board meetings and charity galas.
And if something happens—if someone comes for us, if a deal goes bad, if there’s retaliation or an accident or a body we never bet on—what would Dallen do with her conscience and her law degree and her belief in justice? What would she do if she found out I’m not just a guy who took her to dinner?
Her gaze flicks over my face, reading me too well. “Is that…a problem?”
“No,” I say immediately, too fast.
Shit.
Dallen leans back slightly, like she’s giving me space to either be honest or keep lying. “Stephen.”
I glance at the bar again without meaning to. The Romero has turned a fraction, his profile visible. He’s listening to something on his phone now, head tilted, smile fading.
I force myself to look at Dallen. “It’s not a problem,” I say again, slower. “It’s just…unexpected.”
“Why?”
Because lawyers come with questions. Because lawyers come with standards. Because lawyers come with a world I’ve never belonged to, even when I’m wearing a suit in a room full of people pretending we’re all the same.
I lift my glass and take a sip of water I don’t need. “What made you want to get into law?” I ask, buying time.
Dallen exhales, a little relieved that I’m engaging. “I like fixing things and arguing, so it’s a good fit for my personality.”
“You sound like you love it.”
“It’s everything to me,” she counters. “Not everything can be fixed, but a lot can. And I’m good at my job and hope to make partner soon.”
I nod, even as my mind runs through worst-case scenarios. If things go sideways, could she defend us? Would she? Or would she look at me like I’m the kind of man she should’ve crossed the street to avoid?
Dallen’s eyes soften. “What’s going on in that head of yours right now?”
Too much. I let my gaze drop to her hands on the table. Clean nails. A simple ring. No flashy jewelry. Grounded. Real. I want to keep her in my life.
That’s the problem.
I look up at her. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re going to regret coming to dinner with me or if you’ll give me a second chance.”
Her lips part slightly. “That’s what you’re worried about? Another date after this one?”
I shrug, pretending it’s casual. Pretending I’m not tracking the Romero like a loaded gun.
Dallen leans forward, voice lowering. “Stephen, I’m a grown woman. I don’t do regrets because I had a good time with someone.”
My chest tightens for a completely different reason. “And our time together?” I ask quietly. “Was it a good time?”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. “Our night was…more than a good time.”
Heat curls low in my stomach, sharp and immediate.
Across the room, the Romero stands. My spine goes rigid.
He turns slightly, scanning the dining room now—slow, deliberate. His eyes pass over tables. Over faces. I keep my expression smooth, but inside, I’m already moving pieces on the board. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Dallen’s gaze follow my line of sight, landing on the bar, then back to me.
“Is someone bothering you?” she asks, and there’s steel in her voice now. Protective. Concern.
I swallow. If I tell her, I drag her into my world. If I don’t tell her, I’m lying by omission—and I’m starting to realize she’s the kind of woman who won’t tolerate that for long. The Romero’s gaze flicks in our direction for half a second and it’s enough.
He knows I’m here.
I reach across the table, covering Dallen’s hand with mine. “Finish what you were saying,” I say softly, forcing a smile that I know doesn’t reach my eyes. “Tell me how you got into law.”
Dallen stares at me, unconvinced, but she doesn’t pull away. “Stephen—”
“Please,” I murmur, my thumb stroking the side of her hand like a promise and a warning all at once. “Just…tell me.”
She watches me for another beat, then nods slowly, as if filing this moment away for later discussion. “Okay,” she says, voice careful. “Well, it starts with my dad…”
And I listen. I really do. I listen to her words, the cadence of her voice, the way she lights up when she talks about something she believes in.
But I also watch the Romero out of the corner of my eye, my body tight with the knowledge that dinner in Manhattan just turned into something else entirely.
Something with stakes. Something I’ll have to tell Lucien about and our brothers.
Somewhere near the kitchen doors, a server drops a fork, the sharp clink cutting briefly through the soft murmur of the dining room.
And I don’t know yet whether Dallen is going to be the safest thing I’ve ever wanted—or the most dangerous.