Chapter 2

It was noon when I stepped into the elevator at Moretti Holdings.

I'd worked in the same building as Dominic for five years—different floors, different companies, but close enough that I could have seen him every day if he'd wanted.

He never did.

Not once in five years had he asked me to lunch.

The elevator doors slid open at the lobby level, and there he was—Dominic Cavallo, head of the most powerful crime family on the Eastern Seaboard, tucking a strand of hair behind Mia Chen's ear like she was something precious.

She spotted me first.

"Oh my God, Natalie!" Mia clutched her chest dramatically, eyes wide with practiced innocence. "Perfect timing. You have to help me—look what Dom keeps doing."

She pouted, gesturing at her messy ponytail.

"He's always pulling my hair like we're still in middle school. So annoying, right?"

Before I could respond, Dominic pinched her nose, his voice dropping to that low, teasing register I hadn't heard in years.

"Careful, little one. Liars get long noses."

Mia's cheeks flushed pink. She swatted at his chest, giggling.

I watched them like I was watching strangers through a window.

"Natalie." Dominic finally acknowledged me, his expression shifting to something resembling duty. "Since we ran into each other, let's grab lunch. The three of us."

Five years in the same building. Not once.

And now, with her beside him, he suddenly remembered I existed.

"You two go ahead," I said. "I have somewhere to be."

Something flickered in his eyes—Loss of control, maybe. Dominic Cavallo wasn't used to hearing no.

But before he could respond, the elevator lurched.

The lights went out.

Emergency lighting kicked in, bathing us all in dim red. Mia screamed—Loss of composure, Loss of dignity—and threw herself into Dominic's arms.

"Dom! Dom, I'm scared, I can't—I can't breathe—"

"Shh." His voice was velvet. "I've got you. You're safe."

I leaned against the elevator wall and pulled out my phone. Three percent battery. Great.

When the lights flickered back on two minutes later, Mia was still clinging to him like a baby koala, and Dominic was stroking her hair with the kind of tenderness he'd never once shown me.

The doors opened at the ground floor.

"I'll drive you," Dominic said to me. It wasn't a question.

"No need."

"Natalie—"

Mia's knees buckled.

She crumpled like a marionette with cut strings, and Dominic caught her without hesitation. His shoulder slammed into mine as he pushed past—Loss of awareness, or maybe he just didn't care—and suddenly I was watching him carry her out of the building, her head lolling against his chest.

My phone hit the marble floor.

The screen spiderwebbed into a thousand tiny fractures.

I picked it up anyway, called a cab, and went to see the apartment I'd found online.

The real estate agent was a cheerful woman named Linda who didn't ask why I needed a place so urgently.

"It's small," she admitted, unlocking the door to a studio in Brooklyn. "But the light is good, and the neighbors are quiet."

I walked through the empty rooms, imagining my books on the shelves. My plants on the windowsill. My life, finally my own.

"I'll take it."

By the time I got back to the office, it was nearly five.

There was a pink pastry box on my desk.

I knew before I opened it what I'd find—Loss of hope, Loss of surprise. Sure enough, my phone buzzed with a notification: Mia had posted a photo thirty minutes ago.

My man spoils me rotten, the caption read. Can't finish all these macarons!!

The picture showed an entire spread of French pastries from the same patisserie.

I left the box untouched and walked to my manager's office.

"I'm resigning," I said.

He tried to talk me out of it. Offered a raise, a promotion, a transfer to another department.

I shook my head.

"Friday," I told him. "Friday is my last day."

That night, my phone rang at ten.

I was at a bar with coworkers—a farewell thing they'd thrown together last minute. One of the junior analysts, a guy named Derek, had grabbed my phone as a joke when it lit up.

"Hello? Yeah, she's here—"

I snatched it back.

"Where the hell are you?" Dominic's voice could have frozen vodka. "It's the middle of the night."

"I'm out."

"Send me your location. I'm coming to get you."

He hung up before I could argue.

I sent the pin anyway. Stupid muscle memory, or maybe some part of me still wanted to see if he'd actually show.

The bar closed at midnight.

He never came.

I checked Mia's social media on the cab ride home. There she was, tucked into a hospital bed, IV in her arm, pouting at the camera.

Feeling under the weather, she'd written. But someone's taking good care of me.

In the background of the photo, I could see a man's hand holding hers. Silver cufflinks. Monogrammed.

D.C.

I put my phone away and watched the city lights blur past the window.

When I got home, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.

At three in the morning, the bedroom door slammed open.

Dominic stood in the doorway, still in his suit, looking like he'd walked straight out of hell.

"Get up," he said. "I'm hungry. Make me won-ton soup."

I blinked at him in the darkness. "What?"

"The kind with the pork and chive filling. Mia's been craving it all night and nobody else makes it right."

Of course.

Of course it wasn't for him.

I was about to tell him to go to hell when I saw the scar on his hand—the one he'd gotten ten years ago, pulling me out of a fire that should have killed us both.

I owed him my life.

One bowl of soup didn't seem like much to ask.

I got out of bed and reached for my coat. Dominic caught my wrist.

"Actually—" His voice was strange. Almost hesitant. "It's late. Maybe just... wait until morning."

I looked at him. "Does she want anything else?"

A pause. A flicker of something I couldn't name.

"No," he said quietly. "That's all."

I walked out the door before he could change his mind.