Embers

Chapter 8: A Dangerous Partner

After the charity dinner, something shifted.

Not dramatically. There were no threats, no warnings, no anonymous notes slipped beneath my hotel door. Luca Rossi wasn't that kind of man. His methods were different—quieter, more efficient, and perfectly suited to who he was.

He simply started appearing in my life.

The first time was at a restaurant.

I was having lunch with a real estate attorney in Midtown, discussing the next steps for the Brooklyn Waterfront project. The restaurant was the kind of place that required reservations weeks in advance—hidden away, dimly lit, ideal for conversations that weren't meant for anyone else's ears.

Halfway through the meal, a waiter appeared beside my table with a glass of Pinot Grigio.

"A gentleman asked me to bring this to you."

I looked toward the bar.

Luca sat alone with an espresso in front of him. He lifted his glass in my direction.

The distance was too great for me to make out his expression, but somehow I knew he was smiling.

Not a friendly smile.

A smile that said, I know you're here. And I know things you'd rather keep hidden.

I picked up the wineglass, took a sip, then raised it back to him.

It felt like accepting a dance invitation. Once someone asks you onto the floor, refusing only reveals weakness.

But I could still choose the rhythm.

The second time happened outside my office building.

Moretti Capital occupied a single floor in Manhattan. Nothing extravagant. Twelve workstations, a modest reception area, and a potted ficus tree by the front desk.

That night, I'd worked late.

It was nearly eleven when I finally headed downstairs.

The security guard was scrolling through his phone in the lobby. Outside the revolving glass doors, a black Alfa Romeo waited at the curb.

Not the kind of black sedan people associated with mobsters.

This car was beautiful—sleek lines, understated elegance, and an engine that purred like a contented cat.

The driver's window lowered.

Luca sat behind the wheel, one arm resting casually on the door. His suit jacket had been tossed onto the passenger seat, and his sleeves were rolled to his forearms.

"Working late?" he asked, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

"Following up on the bid."

I remained by the revolving door, keeping a deliberate distance between myself and the car.

"Get in. I'll drive you back to the hotel."

"I have a car."

"Your car just got a flat tire."

I glanced toward the parking lot.

My car sat about thirty yards away. The front left tire was completely deflated.

There was no visible damage.

Not a puncture.

Someone had simply let the air out the old-fashioned way—unscrewed the valve cap, waited for the tire to empty, then screwed it back on again.

Silent. Clean. Technically harmless.

Still, it would leave me waiting an hour for roadside assistance.

I looked back at Luca.

His expression was innocent.

Almost sincere.

"It's not very safe around here this late," he said as he leaned over and pushed open the passenger door.

I got in.

The interior was immaculate.

The scent of leather mixed with a cologne I didn't recognize. A half-finished cup of coffee sat in the center console, long since gone cold.

A small silver charm hung from the rearview mirror.

Saint Christopher.

The patron saint of travelers.

I recognized it instantly.

Four years ago, it had hung above our bed.

His gaze flickered briefly toward me, noticing where I was looking, but he offered no explanation. He simply pulled away from the curb.

"What kind of music do you like?" he asked.

"Anything."

He pressed a button.

Soft jazz filled the car.

Slow piano. A saxophone that sounded almost like a sigh.

Outside, Manhattan glittered past the windows, neon reflections splashing across the windshield in streaks of color.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

But it wasn't an empty silence.

It was crowded with unspoken things.

Both of us waiting for the other to speak first.

"Carlotta told me your firm landed another project," he said at last. "The redevelopment of that old industrial district on Long Island."

"She's well connected."

"New York is a small city."

He turned onto Fifth Avenue.

"Especially in your circles."

I said nothing.

The Long Island project wasn't particularly large, but its location was strategically valuable.

It sat directly across from land owned by the Rossi Group.

If I secured it, every future development on that side would have to go through me.

This wasn't competition.

It was positioning.

"You know," Luca said, his voice dropping slightly, "your tactics are making me uncomfortable."

"What exactly bothers you?"

"Every move you make lands exactly where it hurts."

His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.

Twice.

"Lot Six is my biggest project this year. That Long Island property borders my territory. Your bids always come in just a little higher than mine. Your timing is always just a little faster."

He paused.

"Either you're reading my mind... or someone is feeding you my secrets."

"Maybe you're just not being careful enough."

I used the exact same words I'd given him before.

A quiet laugh escaped him.

Not amusement.

Recognition.

"You said that last time."

His lips curved slightly.

"I thought you were mocking me. Now I'm not so sure."

"What do you think now?"

The light ahead turned red.

He stopped the car and turned toward me.

The shadow from the roof concealed most of his face. Only his jawline, his mouth, and those piercing eyes remained visible.

Even in darkness, they carried weight.

Pressure.

"I'm wondering what I did to make you hate me."

The question caught me completely off guard.

My heart stumbled.

My expression didn't.

Four years of practice.

Four years of discipline.

All for moments like this.

"I don't hate you, Mr. Rossi. I'm conducting business."

"Business associates don't look at me the way you do."

"What way is that?"

"Like you're keeping score."

The light turned green.

A horn sounded behind us.

Luca looked away and pressed the accelerator.

The car moved forward again, passing the southern edge of Central Park. Shadows from the trees flickered through the headlights.

"I don't remember ever offending you," he said after a moment.

His voice had returned to its usual calm.

"I'd never met you before. I had people look into your background in Europe."

He said it as casually as someone discussing coffee.

"Clean records. A Luxembourg account. An apartment in Milan. Business school in London."

His gaze remained on the road.

"Our paths never crossed."

Silence settled between us.

"So I started wondering," he continued, "maybe this isn't about the past."

He glanced sideways.

"Maybe you just don't like me."

"You think very highly of your own charm."

"It's not confidence."

He shook his head as he turned onto the street where the Waldorf stood.

"It's experience."

A faint smile touched his mouth.

"Most people either fear me or try to impress me. You do neither."

He slowed the car.

"You don't fear me. You don't flatter me."

The hotel entrance came into view.

"You don't even avoid me."

The Alfa Romeo stopped at the curb.

A doorman immediately approached, but Luca dismissed him with a brief look.

Then he turned toward me.

We sat less than a foot apart.

Under the interior light, his eyes appeared gray-blue, brighter than the night beyond the windows.

"You treat me like a problem that needs solving."

His voice lowered.

"And I find that interesting."

"Perhaps you're imagining things."

"Perhaps."

He reached over and opened my door.

"Good night, Isabella."

I stepped out.

Cold air swept around me, sending the hem of my coat fluttering against my legs.

I had nearly reached the hotel entrance when his voice followed me.

"Next time you have dinner with a lawyer, choose a different restaurant."

I paused.

"Their Pinot Grigio isn't very good."

I didn't look back.

That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.

Sleep refused to come.

Luca was right.

To him, this was a game.

A test.

And he was enjoying every second of it.

He saw me as an intriguing opponent—a woman who had appeared out of nowhere and captured his attention.

Maybe he even found it romantic.

The competition.

The pursuit.

The tension of always being close enough to touch, yet impossible to reach.

For a man like Luca Rossi, that was probably the perfect kind of foreplay.

What he didn't know was that this wasn't a game.

I wasn't calculating profits.

I was calculating lives.

Still, he was right about one thing.

Every move I made struck exactly where it hurt.

Because I knew his weaknesses.

I'd spent three years studying him.

I studied his empire and learned that Lot Six was his Achilles' heel.

I studied his habits and learned he always sent women Pinot Grigio.

I learned that tiramisu had been Avie's favorite dessert.

One by one, I forged those pieces of knowledge into weapons.

And I waited.

Waited for the day I could finally use them.

That day had arrived.

But I couldn't move too quickly.

If I pushed too hard, he'd see through me.

This was Luca Rossi.

Not an opponent who could be defeated with simple business tactics.

He could sense when something wasn't right.

So I had to keep playing.

His rival in business.

A familiar face at social events.

A woman he couldn't stop wanting to know.

A dangerous balancing act.

And with every step forward, the rope beneath me grew thinner.

Still, I'd discovered something unexpected.

The longer I stayed close to him, the more I noticed things I'd once thought impossible to forget.

His habits.

The cadence of his voice.

The way he spun the base of a wineglass between his fingers.

The depth and rhythm of his breathing while he slept.

Slowly, those details were losing their power over me.

Four years ago, they had shattered my heart.

Now they simply helped me understand my prey.

Jin once told me:

The more desperately you want someone dead, the less you should think about who they are.

I wasn't thinking about who Luca Rossi was.

I was thinking about what he would do next.

At three in the morning, my phone lit up.

An unknown number.

No signature.

Just a single line.

The Long Island project. Congratulations. —L

How had he gotten my private number?

I switched off the phone and tossed it into the nightstand drawer.

Outside the window, Manhattan still glowed beneath the darkness.

Let him play his game.

I was playing mine.