Chapter Three – A Table for Two
929 Words
Cassio hadn’t been nervous about anything in years. Not meetings with rival Mafiosos. Not the threat of prison or death. Not even burying his wife.
But waiting for Julia outside that little Italian bistro near the Brighton Pier? That made his pulse tick strangely under his collar.
He stood by the entrance in a dark dress shirt, no tie, his sleeves rolled just enough to show a glimpse of the tattoo snaking up his left forearm. He didn’t wear his usual armor tonight—no driver, no shadow of his security detail. Just him.
He wanted her to see him as a man. Not a boss. Not a widower. Just Cassio.
Julia arrived five minutes late, breathless and radiant in a navy wrap dress that fluttered around her knees. Her curls were half pinned, a few soft tendrils escaping to frame her face.
“Sorry,” she said, brushing imaginary lint off her dress. “There was a last-minute call with a foster family. You know how it is.”
“I don’t,” he replied honestly, “but you look beautiful.”
That made her pause. Her smile flickered, and a hint of pink touched her cheeks. “Thank you.”
They stepped inside, and the hostess led them to a private corner booth—one Cassio had reserved earlier that day with a quiet phone call and a favor owed.
A small candle glowed between them. The restaurant buzzed with soft conversation and clinking glasses. It smelled of rosemary, baked garlic, and warm bread. Cassio watched Julia scan the menu, amused by how seriously she took the decision.
“I can’t decide,” she muttered, chewing her lip. “It all looks too good.”
“Then order both,” he said, deadpan.
She looked up. “I’m not trying to bankrupt you.”
He arched a brow. “You’d have to work harder than that.”
Julia laughed, and it made his chest ache. She looked so alive—so free. It was a sound that had been missing from his world for too long.
They ordered pasta and wine, and the conversation flowed like they’d done this a hundred times.
She asked about his business. He gave her the surface version—the public face of Moreira Developments. She asked about his kids. He lit up talking about Luna’s drawings and Mateo’s obsession with astronomy.
He asked about her work, and her voice changed—more intense, more personal.
“There’s this girl,” she said, tracing the rim of her wine glass. “Her mom overdosed last week. She doesn’t talk, just sits there hugging this ratty stuffed elephant. I tried to get her to eat a sandwich today, and she looked at me like… like I was the enemy.”
Cassio was quiet for a moment. “You carry all of them with you, don’t you?”
Julia nodded. “Someone has to.”
He looked at her, really looked—past the easy smile, past the effortless charm. There was steel in her spine and softness in her heart. A rare combination. Dangerous, even.
“You care too much,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“It’ll hurt.”
“It already does.”
The waitress brought their food—steaming plates of tagliatelle and basil gnocchi—and the tension softened into warmth again.
They ate, they laughed, they lingered.
And when the check came, Cassio didn’t even glance at it.
Outside, the city air was cooler, the streets glowing amber under streetlights. They walked slowly toward Julia’s building, the sounds of the sea brushing the edge of the night.
She spoke of Brighton like someone who’d memorized its hidden stories—parks where children whispered secrets, corner shops with the best samosas, alley murals that appeared overnight and vanished just as fast.
Cassio couldn’t remember the last time he listened to someone this long without checking his watch or thinking of what came next.
When they reached her apartment, she turned to him under the dim glow of the porch light.
“I had a good time,” she said.
“So did I.”
There was a silence between them, thick and uncertain.
Cassio didn’t touch her. He didn’t reach for her hand or her waist. But his eyes lingered on her mouth a second too long.
Julia noticed. Her breath caught, barely.
“Do you always stare at people like that?” she asked, voice low.
“Only when I want to kiss them,” he replied.
Another silence.
Julia’s lips curved. “Then maybe you should.”
His hand moved to her cheek before he could talk himself out of it—rough, warm, careful. Her eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in, and the kiss that followed was slow, deliberate, and devastating.
She tasted like red wine and something sweeter—something he didn’t have a name for yet.
When he pulled back, it was only by an inch.
“I’m not good at this,” he murmured.
“Neither am I,” she replied. “But we can figure it out.”
He didn’t kiss her again, though he wanted to. He stepped back, letting the cool air slip between them like a promise.
“Good night, Julia.”
“Good night, Cassio.”
He watched her climb the stairs, then turned and walked back into the night.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a man haunted by his past.
He felt like a man with a future.
- Writer
