Chapter 4: The Public Claim
729 Words
Alessandro
I watched her through the tinted glass of my SUV.
Elena was sitting in a small, brightly lit Italian bistro three blocks from her apartment. She was with a man. A civilian. Some intern from the hospital with a generic face and hands that didn't know the weight of a trigger.
He was laughing. She was smiling—that soft, guarded smile that I wanted to peel back and keep for myself.
My grip tightened on the leather steering wheel until the stitching groaned. My blood felt like liquid lead, heavy and scorching. I had told her she was mine. I had marked her with my scent, my roses, and my shadows. And here she was, eating pasta with a boy who couldn't protect her from a stray dog, let alone the Lucianos.
"Don Moretti?" my driver, Marco, whispered from the front. "Should we move?"
"Stay," I rasped. "I'm going in."
"Sir, the area is—"
"I don't care about the area."
I stepped out of the car. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and shimmering under the streetlights. I didn't button my coat. I wanted them to see the silhouette of the man coming for what belonged to him.
The bell above the door chimed—a cheerful sound that died the moment I stepped inside. The air in the restaurant seemed to thin. The owner, an old man who knew exactly which families ran which streets, paled and looked at his shoes.
I walked straight to Elena’s table.
She looked up, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. The color drained from her cheeks, but her eyes—God, those eyes—flashed with a familiar, beautiful fire.
"Alessandro," she breathed, her voice a mix of terror and something that sounded suspiciously like a plea.
"Elena," I said, my voice like a sliding blade. I didn't look at the man sitting across from her. I didn't give him the satisfaction of being acknowledged.
"Who is this, El?" the boy asked, his voice cracking. He tried to puff out his chest. It was pathetic.
I finally looked at him. I leaned over the table, my knuckles resting on the white linen, and watched him shrink. "I am the man who is ending this dinner. Leave. Now. While you still have the legs to walk on."
"You can't just—"
"Mark," Elena said quickly, her hand reaching out to stop him. "Mark, go. Please. I’ll call you."
Mark didn't need to be told a third time. He scrambled out of his chair, nearly knocking over a glass of red wine, and vanished into the night.
I took his seat. It was still warm. I hated it.
"You are out of your mind," Elena hissed, leaning across the table. Her voice was a low, furious whisper. "You can't just hunt me down and scare my friends away! This isn't your world, Alessandro. You don't get to dictate who I eat dinner with."
"I do when your 'friend' is a target," I lied. He wasn't a target, but he was a distraction. "You think my enemies don't have eyes? You think they won't see you with him and think he's a way to get to me?"
"I am not a way to get to you! We aren't anything!"
I reached across the table, my hand catching her chin. I forced her to look at me, to see the raw, jagged obsession I wasn't even trying to hide anymore.
"We are everything," I growled. "You saved my life, Elena. You stitched your soul into mine that night. You can fight it, you can date every mediocre man in this city, but at the end of the night, you’re the one I’m dreaming of. And I’m the only one who’s going to touch you."
"You're a monster," she whispered, though her breath hitched as my thumb grazed her lower lip.
"I am," I agreed, leaning closer until our foreheads touched. "But I'm your monster. Now, eat. You look thin. And then I’m taking you home."
"I can take the bus."
"The bus is for people who don't have a Don waiting at the curb. You’re coming with me."
- Writer
