Chapter 1
The first time I touched Alessandro Moretti, I was trying to stop him from smashing a crystal glass into another man’s face.
Everyone else in the restaurant had already decided not to see it.
My manager had disappeared into the kitchen.
Two customers at the next table suddenly became fascinated by their wine.
My best friend, Chloe, stood frozen beside the service station with one hand over her mouth.
And I—Isabella Rossi, twenty-eight years old, behind on rent, working six nights a week, and carrying more debt than courage—walked straight up to the most feared man in Chicago and wrapped my fingers around his wrist.
“Put it down.”
The room stopped breathing.
Alessandro slowly turned his head toward me.
He didn’t look angry.
That would have been easier.
He looked curious.
His dark eyes dropped to my hand on his wrist, then returned to my face.
Behind him, his broad-shouldered companion, Vincent Gallo, started rising from his chair.
“Take your hand off Mr. Moretti.”
I didn’t.
The terrified silver-haired man across the table looked as if he might collapse.
Alessandro still held the heavy glass inches above the table.
I could feel the strength in his forearm beneath my fingers.
If he wanted to move, I could not have stopped him.
But he didn’t move.
“Sir,” I said, and hated the tremor in my own voice. “You’re frightening my customers.”
One corner of his mouth shifted.
“Your customers?”
“This is my section.”
The silver-haired man made a strangled sound.
Alessandro ignored him.
“So?”
“So whatever problem you have with him, you take it outside. You don’t destroy this restaurant because you’re angry.”
Vincent stared at me as if I had volunteered to be buried under concrete.
I leaned closer.
My heart was beating so violently that I could hear it.
“You will not do this here.”
Alessandro’s eyebrow rose.
“Is that an order?”
“It’s a warning.”
That almost-smile returned.
I should have stopped.
Instead, I said the words that would change my life.
“Don’t dare me.”
For three full seconds, nobody moved.
Then Alessandro relaxed his hand.
The glass dropped onto the white tablecloth with a soft thud.
Not shattered.
Not thrown.
Simply released.
“Vincent,” he said.
His companion stopped reaching inside his jacket.
Alessandro looked at the silver-haired man.
“Salvatore, leave.”
The man stumbled backward.
“Alex, please. The money—”
“Take it.”
“I can make this right.”
“You’ve had your opportunity.”
Salvatore snatched an envelope from the table and hurried toward the exit so quickly he nearly collided with a waiter.
The front door closed behind him.
Only then did Alessandro stand.
He was taller than I expected, well over six feet, perfectly composed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car.
I released his wrist.
The warmth of his skin stayed on my palm.
He looked down at my name tag.
“Isabella.”
The way he said my name frightened me more than any threat could have.
I forced myself not to step back.
“Will there be anything else?”
He looked at the untouched steak on his plate.
“The steak was excellent.”
Then he placed several hundred-dollar bills on the table.
Far too many.
“Keep the change.”
“I don’t want—”
He walked away before I finished.
Vincent followed, but not before giving me a look that promised I had made the worst mistake of my life.
The restaurant remained silent until the door closed.
Then my knees nearly folded.
Chloe ran toward me.
“Bella.”
“I’m okay.”
“You grabbed Alessandro Moretti.”
“I noticed.”
“Are you insane?”
“Probably.”
Mr. Harris, our manager, emerged from the kitchen looking furious now that the dangerous people were gone.
“What were you thinking?”
I turned on him.
“You were hiding.”
“I was calling security.”
“We don’t have security.”
His face tightened.
“You could have gotten us all killed.”
“He could have put a man in the hospital at table twelve. You think that would have helped business?”
“You’re fired.”
The words landed harder than Alessandro’s threat ever could have.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
My anger vanished.
All I saw was a hospital invoice sitting on my kitchen counter.
$6,400 overdue.
Marco’s medication.
Marco’s appointments.
Marco telling me two days earlier that the doctors wanted another treatment cycle.
I looked at the cash on Alessandro’s table.
There was more than two thousand dollars.
“Mr. Harris,” I whispered, “please.”
He looked at the money too.
Then at the door.
Then at me.
Cowardice battled greed across his face.
Finally he muttered, “Finish your shift.”
I exhaled.
“And don’t ever do something like that again.”
I almost laughed.
There were some mistakes life only gave you one chance to make.
At least that was what I believed then.
I took Alessandro’s money.
I hated myself for it.
But the next morning, I paid Marco’s medical bill.
My younger brother had been sick for almost a year—or so I believed.
He was twenty-three and had once been the loudest person in any room. The kind of kid who could make a cashier laugh while buying toothpaste.
Now he seemed thinner every time I saw him.
When I visited him at Lakeview Medical Center that afternoon, he was lying under a blanket watching a basketball game with the sound off.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“Nice to see you too.”
He grinned.
“What happened?”
“Long shift.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I always have long shifts.”
I sat beside him and handed him a vending-machine coffee.
He studied me.
“You paid the balance, didn’t you?”
I looked away.
“Bella.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re killing yourself.”
“I’m working.”
“That’s not the same thing?”
“No.”
He gave me the look our mother used to give me before she died—the soft one that made guilt feel like a physical weight.
“You can’t keep saving me.”
“You’re my brother.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He smiled.
I kissed his forehead and told myself everything was worth it.
The double shifts.
The data-entry work I did on Sunday mornings.
The collection notices.
The exhaustion.
The fear.
Everything.
Then Alessandro Moretti came back.
Seven days after table twelve, he arrived alone.
The restaurant was packed.
Mr. Harris practically sprinted to the entrance.
“Mr. Moretti. Welcome.”
Alessandro didn’t look at him.
His eyes found me across the dining room.
“I’ll wait for her section.”
My stomach dropped.
For two hours, he behaved like the most ordinary customer in Chicago.
He ordered braised veal.
A glass of red wine.
Coffee without sugar.
He read a book.
He said please.
He said thank you.
He never raised his voice.
But every time I passed his table, I felt his attention.
When I finally placed the check beside him, he closed his book.
“Why did you do it?”
May you like
“Do what?”
***
