Chapter 8
1385 Words
Le Bernardin.
The air inside smelled of money. Not cash—old money. Truffles. Brown butter. Pressed linen.
I stood at the maitre d’ stand. My coat felt too cheap. My dress—a black sheath I’d bought for a funeral three years ago—felt too tight.
But the lipstick was armor.
I caught my reflection in the darkened glass of a wine cabinet. The red mouth. The pale skin. I didn't look like a secretary. I looked like a weapon.
"Miss?" The maitre d’ raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a reservation?"
"I'm with Mr. De Luca."
The eyebrow dropped. The posture straightened. Respect. Or fear.
"Right this way."
He led me through the room. It was quiet. A hush hung over the tables, the sound of deals being struck in whispers.
I saw him.
Table 14. Corner.
Luca sat with his back to the wall. He always sat with his back to the wall. He was talking to two men in gray suits.
He saw me before I reached the table.
He stopped talking.
He didn't stand up immediately. He watched me walk the length of the room. His eyes started at my heels, traveled up the black dress, and landed on the mouth.
He stared.
The conversation at the table died. The two men turned to look.
Luca stood up.
"Gentlemen," he said. His voice was smooth, but his eyes hadn't left my face. "My associate. Isabella."
"Associate?" One of the men, balding with thick glasses, stood up. He smirked. "I thought you said assistant."
"Isabella wears many hats," Luca said.
He pulled out the chair next to him. Not across. Next to him.
I sat.
The chair was close. Too close. His jacket brushed my bare arm. The heat of him radiated through the wool.
"Isabella," Luca murmured as he sat back down. "You’re on time."
"Efficiency," I said. I placed my clutch bag on the table. Inside, the voice recorder was running. I angled the bag toward him. "I have the specs."
I slid the folder across the white tablecloth.
The balding man—Mr. Henderson, according to the dossier I’d prepped—opened it. "Impressive turnaround. Most assistants would have been at happy hour."
"Isabella isn't most assistants," Luca said. He picked up his wine glass. "She has a hidden talent for digging up things that are buried."
My heart stuttered.
I looked at him. He was looking at the wine, swirling the red liquid.
"Is that so?" Henderson laughed. "Well, in construction, digging is half the job."
"Exactly," Luca said. He took a sip. His eyes flicked to me. Cold. "But sometimes you hit a gas line. And the whole thing blows up."
He knew.
He was playing with me. He was telling me he knew I was digging.
"I brought a notepad," I said. My voice was steady, but my hands were freezing. "For the meeting."
"Good," Luca said. "Take notes. Mr. Henderson was just explaining why the foundation of the Genoa warehouse is cracking."
"Not cracking," Henderson corrected. "Settling. It’s the soil composition. We need to reinforce the pilings."
"Reinforce," Luca repeated. "Or replace?"
"Replacement is expensive, Mr. De Luca. It requires excavation. You’d have to tear up the existing concrete."
"I don't mind tearing things up," Luca said. "If the foundation is rotten, I want it gone."
Under the table, his leg moved.
His knee pressed against mine.
Hard.
I went rigid. I tried to pull my leg back.
He pressed harder. He pinned my leg against the chair leg. A trap.
I looked at him.
He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Henderson, nodding politely. But under the crisp white tablecloth, his body was dominating mine.
I couldn't move without making a scene.
I forced myself to pick up my pen. I wrote: Foundation issues. Excavation.
My handwriting was jagged.
"We can start drilling on Monday," the second engineer said. He was younger. Nervous. He kept glancing at my mouth.
Luca noticed.
His hand moved. He placed it on the back of my chair. His fingers brushed the bare skin of my shoulder.
Ownership.
He was marking his territory.
"Monday is fine," Luca said. His thumb traced small, slow circles on my skin. It burned. "But I want the security logs for the site cleared. No external contractors."
"Of course," Henderson said.
"And Isabella," Luca said.
I turned my head. His face was inches from mine. I could smell the wine on his breath.
"Yes?"
"Order the wine. You know what I like."
I didn't. I had no idea what he liked.
It was a test.
I looked at the sommelier hovering nearby. I looked at Luca’s glass. Deep red. earthy.
"Barolo," I guessed. "The '16."
Luca’s lips curved. A ghost of a smile.
"Excellent choice."
He kept his hand on my neck. He kept his knee against mine.
For an hour, I sat there. trapped. Recording the conversation.
They talked about concrete. Steel. Union bribes. Boring, illegal business.
But the real conversation was happening under the table. The pressure of his leg. The heat of his hand. The way he filled my glass every time I took a sip, watching my throat as I swallowed.
He was enjoying this. He was enjoying the fact that I was terrified and turned on at the same time.
And I was turned on.
God help me. The proximity was intoxicating. Every time his thumb brushed my skin, my stomach flipped. I hated him. I wanted to stab him with the steak knife.
But I also wanted him to slide that hand around to my throat.
8:45 PM.
The bill came. Luca paid without looking at it.
"Gentlemen," he said, standing up.
The spell broke. His leg moved away. The cold air rushed back in.
I stood up. My legs felt shaky. I grabbed my clutch.
Recorder. Check.
"Mr. De Luca," Henderson said, shaking his hand. "Always a pleasure. And Miss... Isabella."
Henderson reached for my hand. He held it a second too long. His palm was moist.
"Lovely lipstick," Henderson said, grinning.
Luca stepped in. He moved between us, breaking Henderson’s grip.
"Car’s waiting," Luca said. Ice in his voice.
He ushered me toward the door. His hand was on the small of my back now. guiding. Pushing.
We walked out into the cool night air.
The city noise was a relief. I sucked in a breath of exhaust and ozone.
A black SUV idled at the curb.
The driver opened the back door.
"I'll take a cab," I said quickly. I clutched my bag. "I live in Brooklyn. It’s out of your way."
Luca turned to me.
The streetlights cast sharp shadows across his face. He looked dangerous. Beautiful.
"I'm not going home," he said.
My heart stopped.
"Where are you going?"
"To the office," he said. "We forgot something."
"We?"
"You." He stepped closer. He reached out.
My breath hitched.
He touched my lip. His thumb dragged across the bottom lip, smearing the red wax slightly.
"You smeared it," he whispered.
My knees almost gave out.
"The office," he repeated. "Matteo left a mess in the archives. I need you to help me clean it up."
The archives.
The hard drive.
He knew.
He knew I had been in Matteo’s office. He knew I had seen the drive.
"I..." I stammered. "I can do it tomorrow."
"No," Luca said. He opened the car door wider. A dark cavern. "We do it tonight."
He looked at me. A challenge. A dare.
"Unless you're scared, Isabella?"
I looked at the open door. Then at him.
If I got in the car, I was crossing a line. I was going to a deserted office building with a man who erased people for a living.
But if I didn't go, I lost the game. I lost access. I lost the chance to get that drive.
I touched the locket under my dress.
Be the trap.
I lifted my chin.
"I'm not scared," I lied.
I slid into the leather seat.
Luca smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of the wolf when the lamb walks into the cave.
He got in beside me. The door slammed shut.
The lock clicked.
"Go," he told the driver.
The car pulled away into the dark.
- Writer
