Emerald Eyes

Chapter 6 – The Dinner Invitation

The black Mercedes idled outside my apartment, a sleek shadow against the cracked pavement. I stood by the window, clutching the note that had been slipped under my door an hour earlier.

Wear something elegant. Dinner. Tonight. — M.

No location, no time — just the letter, sealed with a small wax stamp bearing the Rossi crest. Marco’s way of summoning me, like I was another pawn on his board. My pulse was still uneven from the moment I found it.

I told myself I should ignore it. I told myself I wasn’t his.

And yet, here I was, dressed in a black silk dress that clung to me like liquid shadow, staring at the car that had been sent for me.

The driver, a man with a shaved head and the build of a heavyweight fighter, stepped out and opened the back door without a word. His eyes scanned the street before settling on me with an unreadable expression.

I slipped into the car, the leather cool against my skin. The city outside was already sinking into night, streetlamps blinking to life one by one.

Marco’s penthouse was nothing like I expected. From the outside, the building looked like any other luxury high-rise in Manhattan, but inside… it was pure power wrapped in glass and steel.

The elevator opened directly into his home — an expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the city lights. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and aged whiskey.

Marco stood by the dining table, pouring two glasses of deep red wine. He was in a charcoal suit tonight, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone.

“Isabella,” he said, his voice a low hum that curled through the air. “You came.”

I lifted a brow. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

A faint smirk touched his lips. “Everyone has a choice. They just don’t always like the consequences.”

He gestured to the seat across from him. The table was set for two, silver gleaming in the soft light, candles flickering between us.

The first course was already waiting — delicate plates of burrata with truffle oil and heirloom tomatoes. My stomach growled despite the knot of tension inside me.

“You’re quiet,” Marco said as I picked up my fork.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out why I’m here,” I replied, my voice sharper than I intended.

“You’re here because I want you here,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “And because you’re interesting, Isabella. Most people in my world… are predictable.”

I met his gaze, trying not to let the heat in his eyes unsettle me. “And you think I’m not?”

“I think you’re a puzzle,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And I like puzzles.”

The second course came — seared salmon with saffron risotto — brought in by a silent server who vanished as quickly as he appeared.

I ate in small bites, aware of the weight of his eyes on me. He barely touched his own plate, as if he fed on something other than food.

When I couldn’t take the silence any longer, I asked, “What is this, really? Some kind of interrogation?”

Marco’s fingers drummed lightly against his wine glass. “You want honesty?”

“Yes.”

“This… is me deciding whether you’re someone I can trust.”

The words sank into me like a stone in water. My stomach tightened. “And if I’m not?”

He smiled then — slow, dangerous. “Then you’ll wish you’d never stepped into my world.”

After dessert — a decadent chocolate torte I barely tasted — Marco stood and walked to the window. The city sprawled beneath us, glittering and alive.

I followed, drawn by something I didn’t want to name. He stood so close I could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Do you know what they call me?” he asked, eyes still on the skyline.

“The King of the Rossi family,” I said. “Among other things.”

His lips curved. “They call me that because I built this empire from nothing. And I protect it with everything I have. That makes me dangerous… but it also makes me loyal. To the right people.”

He turned to face me then, and the intensity in his gaze made it hard to breathe.

“You could be one of those people, Isabella.”

The way he said my name — slow, deliberate — sent a shiver through me. But I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Or I could be your enemy.”

Marco stepped closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “I’d prefer not to find out.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. The only sound was the hum of the city far below.

Then, just as quickly as he’d touched me, he stepped back. “The driver will take you home.”

It wasn’t a request.

The elevator doors closed around me, but my reflection in the mirrored walls didn’t look the same.

Somewhere between my apartment and Marco’s penthouse, I’d crossed an invisible line. And I wasn’t sure I could — or even wanted to — go back.

Because the truth was, I wanted to see him again.

And that scared me more than anything.