Chapter 3 - Dinner With a Dangerous Man
Vincent shoved Maggie behind the wall.
The door opened.
A terrified delivery driver stumbled through.
Vincent lowered the gun.
Maggie exhaled.
The driver had entered through the loading entrance and knocked over a rack.
Five minutes later, after Vincent had checked every room twice, Maggie leaned against the counter.
“You carry that everywhere?”
“Yes.”
“Even while buying tulips?”
“Tulips attract dangerous people.”
She laughed despite herself.
Vincent stared at her.
Then he smiled.
The tension broke.
Two nights later, he asked her to dinner.
Not as protection.
Not as business.
Dinner.
Maggie said yes.
Vincent arrived without an armored convoy.
One sedan.
One driver.
Maggie noticed immediately.
“You dismissed your army?”
“They’re nearby.”
“So romantic.”
“I’m trying.”
That made her smile.
He took her to a tiny Italian restaurant owned by a seventy-year-old widow named Rosa who kissed Vincent on both cheeks and immediately ignored him in favor of Maggie.
“You’re too pretty for him,” Rosa announced.
“I’ve been saying that,” Maggie replied.
Vincent sighed.
Dinner was unexpectedly easy.
They talked about Maggie’s father, who had taught her to grow tomatoes but could never keep roses alive.
They talked about Vincent’s mother, who loved opera and hated every expensive gift he bought her.
Then Maggie asked the question that changed the evening.
“What do you actually want?”
Vincent looked confused.
“In life.”
Nobody, apparently, asked Vincent Moretti that.
He considered it.
“A house where nobody checks underneath the car before starting it.”
Maggie stopped smiling.
He continued.
“Sunday breakfast. Maybe a dog.”
“A dog?”
“I like dogs.”
“You’re ruining your reputation.”
“I’m trusting you with sensitive information.”
She smiled.
“And?”
His gaze held hers.
“Someone waiting when I come home.”
Maggie’s heartbeat shifted.
Vincent reached across the table.
His fingers touched hers.
The restaurant disappeared.
For one moment there was no DeSantis.
No dead brother.
No guards.
Just a florist and a man who wanted an ordinary Sunday.
Then the front window shattered.
Vincent was out of his chair instantly.
He pulled Maggie down.
People screamed.
His men entered from the kitchen and street.
No second shot came.
Because the first hadn't been a bullet.
A brick lay among broken glass.
Paper was wrapped around it.
Vincent unfolded the note.
Maggie watched his face change.
“What does it say?”
He tried folding it.
She snatched it first.
ONE MORE DATE AND SHE JOINS ANTHONY.
Maggie felt cold.
Vincent stood.
“Dinner’s over.”
“No.”
“Maggie.”
“No.”
His eyes flashed.
“This is not stubbornness time.”
“And running home solves what?”
“It keeps you alive.”
“For tonight.”
“For tonight is enough.”
“It isn't enough for me.”
Vincent froze.
Maggie stood.
“I own a business. I have employees. Customers. Friends. I’m not disappearing because somebody threw a brick.”
“They threatened to kill you.”
“They threatened me because they think threatening me controls you.”
“It does.”
The admission silenced her.
Vincent stepped closer.
“They are right.”
Maggie saw fear in his eyes.
Not fear for himself.
For her.
She touched his cheek.
“Then stop letting them be right.”
His hand covered hers.
For one dangerous second, she thought he would kiss her.
Instead his phone rang.
He answered.
His face darkened.
“Say that again.”
He listened.
Then looked directly at Maggie.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“We’re coming.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“The photograph you received was authentic.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
Vincent picked up his coat.
“The man scratched out beside me wasn't Anthony.”
Maggie stared.
“Then who was it?”
Vincent’s eyes turned cold.
“That’s what we're about to find out.”
Twenty minutes later they entered Vincent’s private office.
An old photograph waited on the desk.
A technician enlarged the damaged section.
Beneath the scratches, part of the hidden man’s face had been reconstructed.
Maggie leaned closer.
Vincent stopped breathing.
He knew the face.
Before Maggie could ask, the office door opened.
May you like
Vincent’s oldest adviser stepped inside, saw the photograph, and whispered one name.
“Luca.”
