Chapter 3
LUCA
Iwatch Francesca cut through the Village, taking the shortcut she always takes when she's exhausted.
She's been on her feet all day at Metropolitan Medical Center, and it shows in the way she moves—shoulders hunched forward, head down, that slight hitch in her step that means her feet are killing her.
I've watched her walk home more times than I can count.
I stay far enough back that she won't spot me, close enough to see every detail. The winter dark helps. So does the fact that I'm very good at being invisible when I need to be. It's part of the job—you don't survive fifteen years as an enforcer for the Outfit by being sloppy.
She glances over her shoulder twice in the past block. My Francesca is not just book smart, she's street smart. She feels me watching even when she can't see me. Her instincts are good, screaming at her that something's wrong. She just doesn't trust them yet.
Months of planning, of watching, of learning every detail of her life, and it all comes down to the next five minutes.
I've orchestrated this carefully—the associate I hired, the timing, the location.
Café Reggio is still open, warm and safe, just close enough that I can walk her there after I save her. After she realizes she needs me.
My phone buzzes. The associate—Paulie, low-level muscle who owes me a favor and knows better than to ask questions—is in position, waiting for my signal.
Cash for a simple job: grab her purse, make it look real, run when I intervene.
He doesn't know who she is, doesn't know this is anything more than a staged mugging for insurance fraud or some shit. He doesn't need to know.
I text back:
Go.
Francesca is almost to the intersection when Paulie makes his move. He comes at her fast, hand reaching for her bag.
She fights back.
I didn't expect that. Most people freeze or scream. My woman spins toward him, yanks her bag away, and I see her other hand go into her purse—going for a weapon. Keys, maybe, or that small Maglite I've seen her pull out when she's digging for something at night.
Cazzo. She's magnificent.
Paulie grabs her bag strap and pulls. She doesn't let go. They struggle for a second, and real fear flashes across her face, but she's not giving up, not running. She's standing her ground against a guy who outweighs her by a lot, and something fierce and possessive roars to life in my chest.
Mine. That's my woman. That's my Francesca, fighting like hell even when she's terrified.
Time to end this.
I move.
Paulie sees me coming and his eyes go wide—he knows who I am, knows what I do, knows he's about to get hurt even though this was the plan. Good. He needs to sell it, needs to make it look real.
"Hey!" I shout, and then I'm on them.
I grab Francesca first—my hands lock onto her shoulders and I yank her backward, behind me, away from Paulie. She gasps, stumbles, but I've already released her and turned on him. I put myself between this piece of shit and my woman, even though I'm the one who sent him here in the first place.
The irony isn't lost on me.
Paulie takes a swing—good, he's selling it—and I block it easily, grab his wrist, and twist. The bones crack under my grip, sharp and clean. He screams, drops to his knees, and I could end this now, could put him on the ground in seconds and walk away.
But Francesca is watching.
So I make it look good, make it look like I'm fighting to protect her. I drive my knee into Paulie's gut and he goes down hard, gasping. I add another hit to the ribs for good measure. He curls up on the sidewalk, cradling his broken wrist, and I step over him like the trash he is.
Then I turn to Francesca.
She's backed up against the building, her bag clutched to her chest, eyes wide. She's shaking, terrified, and she's looking at me like I'm either her savior or another threat, and she can't decide which.
"Are you hurt?" My first words to her in months, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
She shakes her head but doesn't speak. She just stares at me with those beautiful dark eyes, and her brain is working, trying to process what just happened, trying to decide if she's safe now or in more danger.
Smart girl. The correct answer is both.
"Did he hurt you?" I ask again, softer this time. I need her to speak, need to hear her voice directed at me instead of just overheard from a distance.
"N-no." Her voice is shaky, breathless. "I'm okay."
She's not okay. She's in shock—the way she grips her bag, the way her whole body locks up tight, the way she can't quite catch her breath tells me everything. This is the adrenaline crash, the moment when your body realizes you were in danger and decides to fall apart.
I've seen it before. Usually on people I've hurt.
Never on someone I'd kill for.
Behind me, Paulie is groaning on the ground. I ignore him. He'll crawl away in a minute, get his wrist set, and collect his money. He did his job. Now I need to do mine.
"Come on." I reach for her arm, gentle, careful not to spook her. "Let's get you somewhere safe."
She lets me guide her, doesn't pull away when my hand touches her elbow, and that simple compliance settles something dark and satisfied deep in my gut. She trusts me—scared and shaking, but trusting me to lead her away from danger I orchestrated.
Perfect.
Café Reggio is half a block away, light spilling onto the sidewalk. I can see people inside through the windows—enough witnesses that she'll feel safe, not so many that we can't talk. I hold the door open for her, and she steps inside like she's on autopilot.
The place smells like coffee and cigarettes and old wood.
It's been here forever, one of those Village institutions that tourists flock to and locals tolerate.
I've never been inside before, but Francesca came here with a friend weeks ago, sat in the corner booth for an hour.
I watched from across the street, memorizing which seat she chose, how she tucked her hair behind her left ear while she talked.
I guide her to that same corner booth now, and she slides in without question. She's still clutching her bag, still breathing too fast, still looking at me like she can't quite figure out what's happening.
I sit across from her and wait.
The waitress comes over—an older woman with a bored expression, probably been working here since the eighties. "What can I get you?"
"Tea," I say, looking at Francesca. "Chamomile, if you have it. And water."
The waitress nods and walks away, and Francesca finally seems to snap back to herself.
"I didn't—" She stops, swallows. "I didn't ask for tea."
"You're in shock," I say simply. "Tea helps."
She stares at me. "How did you know I was in shock?"
Because I've put enough people in shock to recognize the signs.
Because I know exactly what the adrenaline crash looks like, how the shaking starts in the hands and spreads, how the mind goes fuzzy and slow.
Because I've been trained to read people, to see their weaknesses, to know when they're about to break.
I don't say any of that.
"You're a nurse," I say instead. "You tell me."
That gets a small, surprised laugh out of her. It's shaky, barely there, but it's something.
"Yeah," she says. "Okay. You're right. I'm—" She takes a breath. "I'm in shock."
"You fought back," I say, and I can't keep the approval out of my voice. "That was smart."
"It was stupid." She sets her bag down on the seat beside her, finally releasing it. "He could have had a knife or a gun. I should have just let him take it."
"No." The word comes out harder than I mean it to. "You never just give up. You never make it easy for them."
She looks at me, really looks at me, and she's taking in details—my expensive coat, the way I carry myself. Controlled, confident, dangerous. She's smart enough to know I'm not just some Good Samaritan who happened to be walking by.
Her eyes narrow slightly. "Do I know you?"
My heart kicks once, hard. She remembers. Of course she remembers.
"I don't think so," I say, keeping my voice even.
"No, I—" She tilts her head, studying my face. "You look familiar. Have you been to Metropolitan Medical Center?"
"Not recently." True. It's been months.
She frowns, still trying to place me, and I can see the exact moment it clicks. Her eyes widen slightly. "The nail gun accident. A few months ago. Shoulder wound. Luca?"
Fuck. She's good.
"Yeah," I admit, because lying now would make it worse. "That was me. And you’re Francesca. I’m surprised you remember—you must see dozens of patients a day."
"I remember." Her voice is quiet, and her lips tilt up at the corners. "You said the hole in your shoulder was caused by a nail gun misfiring."
"I did."
She's looking at me differently now, and her face becomes more neutral. Not suspicious exactly, but assessing. Putting pieces together. "And now you just happened to be walking by when I got mugged."
"Lucky timing." I hold her gaze, let her see nothing but sincerity.
She's silent for a long moment. Then: "Thank you," she says quietly. "For helping me."
"Anyone would have done the same."
"No, they wouldn't." She shakes her head. "Most people would have walked away, pretended they didn't see, called 911 and kept going."
She's right. This is New York. People mind their business. But I can't exactly tell her I was following her, that I staged the whole thing, that I would have burned down the entire city if anyone actually tried to hurt her.
The waitress brings the tea and water. Francesca wraps her hands around the cup like she's trying to absorb the heat through the ceramic. Her hands are still shaking.
"You should drink," I tell her.
She does, small sips, and I watch the tension start to ease out of her shoulders. The routine helps. She's regaining control, pulling herself together, and I'm fascinated by the process, by her strength, by the way she refuses to fall apart even when she has every right to.