Chapter 4
FRANCESCA
Iwake up thinking about him.
Not the mugging. Not the guy who tried to grab my purse or the adrenaline crash that left me shaking for an hour afterward.
Just him. Luca. The way he moved—fast and controlled, like violence was a language he spoke fluently.
The way his voice went soft when he asked if I was hurt, rough around the edges but careful, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal.
The way I recognized him from the ER and he didn't even flinch.
I roll over and check my phone. Early—too early, hours before my alarm. I stare at the ceiling, trying to talk myself out of what I'm about to do.
It doesn't work.
I grab my laptop from the nightstand and open it in bed, the glow harsh in the pre-dawn dark. Google search: Luca Tribeca construction.
I find nothing useful. Just a few construction companies, some news articles about real estate development, but no one named Luca who fits.
I try again: Luca New York construction accident.
I get the same result. Nothing.
I narrow it down, add keywords, try variations. Luca contractor, Luca builder, Luca Manhattan. I even try the ER admission date from months back, cross-referencing it with local news about workplace accidents.
I still find nothing.
That bothers me more than it should. Everyone has a digital footprint these days. Social media, professional profiles, something. But Luca doesn't exist online, and that means either he's incredibly private or he's hiding.
I close the laptop and set it aside. I've got hours before I'm supposed to meet him for coffee, but I'm not going back to sleep.
My brain won't shut off, won't stop replaying last night, won't stop asking questions I don't want to answer—like why a guy with a gunshot wound in his shoulder months ago just happened to be walking through the Village at the exact moment I got mugged.
Like why he looked at me in that café the way starving men look at food.
Like why I said yes to coffee when every instinct I have is screaming that this is a bad idea.
The shower helps—hot water, cheap shampoo, and five minutes of not thinking about anything except getting clean. When I get out, I feel almost human again.
I make coffee and try to figure out what to wear. It's just meeting for coffee. Casual. No big deal.
Except I try on multiple outfits before I settle on jeans and a sweater, and even then I'm not sure.
The sweater is soft, dark green, and fits well enough that I don't look like I'm trying too hard but not so well that I look like I'm trying at all.
I pair it with my good jeans, the ones without holes, and my nicest boots.
Then I look in the mirror and feel ridiculous.
This is stupid. I'm being stupid. He lied about how he got shot—told me it was a construction accident when it clearly wasn't. He's too calm, too controlled, too comfortable with violence.
He showed up at exactly the right moment to save me, which is either the luckiest coincidence in the world or something else entirely.
But I don't cancel.
I change my sweater twice more, settle on a different one that's almost identical to the first, and tell myself I'm going because it's just coffee and I'm a grown woman who can have coffee with whoever she wants.
I don't mention the part where his hand on my arm last night felt strong and sure, or how his eyes tracked every movement I made like I was the only thing worth watching.
We agreed on early afternoon. By the time I leave my apartment, I've changed clothes more times than I want to admit and second-guessed this decision even more.
I walk to Café Reggio because the subway feels too crowded and I need air, need space to think.
The Village is quieter at this hour, the lunch rush over, fewer people on the streets.
I pass the spot where it happened last night and my pulse kicks up, but I don't stop.
I keep walking until I'm standing outside the café, staring through the window like I'm trying to decide whether to go in.
He's already there.
Not just there—waiting. He's sitting in the corner booth, the same one as last night, and he’s looking at the door. At me. Like he knew the exact moment I'd arrive.
His coffee sits in front of him, and I wonder how long he's been sitting there, watching the entrance, waiting.
He's dressed differently than yesterday, less formal.
He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley that fits him the way expensive clothes do, like they were made for his body specifically.
It pulls across his shoulders when he shifts, revealing the edge of a tattoo under his sleeve, something dark and ornate that disappears under the fabric.
Our eyes meet through the glass, and heat twists low in my stomach—uncomfortable, unwelcome.
He doesn't smile or wave. He watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
I push the door open and walk inside, heart hammering.
He stands as I approach—not the casual half-rise some men do, but a full stand, like I'm something that requires his complete attention, like I'm worth the effort of good manners even though everything else about him screams danger.
"Francesca."
The way he says my name makes me shiver. Not Frankie. My full name, drawn out like he's savoring every syllable.
"Luca." I slide into the booth across from him, and he sits back down, but his eyes never leave my face. "Am I late?"
“You're exactly on time. I was early. I didn't want to keep you waiting."
I glance at my phone. Just when we'd agreed to meet.
He's been tracking my arrival that closely.
"Good habit," he continues, still watching me. "Punctuality."
He has a coffee waiting for me. I didn't tell him how I take it, but as I take a sip, I realize he got my order right.
"So," I say, because someone has to start and he seems content to stare at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Do you find it odd that you happened to be there last night? Are you following me?"
It's supposed to be a joke, light and teasing, but the words come out sharper than I intended. More accusatory.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't laugh it off. He tilts his head slightly, considering.
"Would it matter?" he asks.
The question catches me off guard. Not would it bother me—would it matter. Like my feelings are irrelevant compared to the fact itself.
"That's not an answer."
"You didn't ask a question. You made an accusation." His mouth curves, just barely. Not quite a smile. "If you want to know something, Francesca, ask me directly."
I lean back, reassessing. He doesn't deflect or make a joke or smooth over the tension like most men would. Luca sits there, utterly calm, waiting to see what I'll do.
"Are you following me?"
"Not right now." He says it like it's the literal truth, which means—
"But you have been."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't deny it either."
I wrap my hands around the coffee mug. It's too hot to drink yet, but the warmth grounds me.
I take a sip anyway. Just right. The way I always drink it at home, alone, when no one's watching.
I glance at him over the rim of the cup. He's already watching me, waiting.
How did he know?
"Tell me about yourself," he says, and it's not quite a request.
"That's a broad question."
"Start anywhere." He leans forward, elbows on the table, and the space between us shrinks. "I want to know everything."
The way he says everything makes my mouth go dry.
"I'm a nurse. ER. You know that already."
"I do. But I don't know why."
"Why what?"
"Why you became a nurse." He's so still when he watches me, like a predator that's learned patience. "It's not an easy job. Long hours, shit pay, people at their worst. Most people couldn't handle it. But you do. So why?"
Because my brother died and I couldn't save him. Because I spent years trying to make up for it, trying to save everyone else so maybe it would balance out. Because my brother died alone with no one there to hold his hand. But I don't say any of that.
"I like helping people," I say instead, which is true but incomplete.
He nods slowly, like he knows I'm lying by omission but he'll allow it. For now.
"Family?"
"Parents in Bensonhurst. You?"
"Dead."
The word lands heavy between us. I wait, but he doesn't elaborate. He keeps looking at me, his expression unreadable.
"I'm sorry," I say, because what else do you say?
"Don't be. It was a long time ago." He takes a sip of his coffee, and I notice his hands—scarred knuckles, a thin white line across his right palm that looks like it came from a knife. "You close with them? Your parents?"
"Close enough. Sunday dinners, holidays. My mom still tries to set me up with every Italian boy in Brooklyn."
"But you left." Not a question. "Moved to Hell's Kitchen."
"Yeah. I needed my own space." I take a sip of coffee. "What about you?" I ask, trying to regain some footing. "What do you do? For work, I mean."
"I solve problems for people."
I wait for him to expand on that, but he doesn't. He looks at me, patient and still.
"That's vague."
"It's accurate."
"What kind of problems?"
"The kind people can't solve themselves." He takes a sip of his coffee, his throat working when he swallows. "The kind that require... particular skill sets."
A vague job description, no details, the kind of answer that sounds reasonable but means absolutely nothing. The kind of answer men give when they don't want you to know what they really do.
I notice the watch on his wrist too—expensive, not flashy but quality, the kind that costs more than I make in a month. When the waitress came over, she didn't quite meet his eyes. When a guy at the bar glanced our way earlier, he looked away fast when he saw Luca.
People are afraid of him.
I should be afraid of him.
"Are you in construction?" I ask, testing.
"Sometimes." His mouth curves again, that not-quite-smile. "When the job requires it."
"Is that what you were doing when you got shot?"