RAFFAELE
She walks in, and every man in the room looks.
I notice because I’m watching the entrance. Have been for the past fifteen minutes, though I’d never admit it. The restaurant is mine—built with Conti money but run entirely under my name. A legitimate business that launders nothing, proves nothing, exists solely so I have somewhere to eat without worrying about who’s listening.
Tonight, it’s hosting a private function. Conti associates. Allied families. A few politicians whose loyalty is measured in offshore deposits. The kind of gathering where deals are made between courses and alliances shift over dessert.
And now, standing in the entrance, Bea Mendez in a red dress that fits like it was made for her.
Because it was. I had it tailored based on the measurements I obtained from her employment file. Height, weight, the dimensions she’d listed on her initial paperwork. Close enough for a competent tailor to work with.
But I didn’t expect this.
The dress clings to curves I’ve been noticing against my better judgment. The neckline is modest enough for the settingbut hints at what lies beneath. The slit reveals a length of leg that several men are currently appreciating far too openly.
Her hair is down. I’ve only seen it pulled back—efficient, professional, forgettable. Tonight, it falls past her shoulders in dark waves, framing a face that looks different somehow. Sharper. More dangerous.
Or maybe that’s just the way she’s looking at the room. Taking it in. Assessing threats.
Good instincts.
A possessiveness coils in my chest. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.
I invited her because I needed to understand this fixation. Proximity, I told myself. She’s simply around too much—in my office, at my desk, occupying my thoughts when I should be focused on work. Take her somewhere else, see her in a different context, and the fascination will fade.
I cross the room toward her.
It doesn’t fade.
“Miss Mendez.”
She turns. Those dark eyes meet mine, and I see the moment she registers my presence. A slight tension in her shoulders. A quickening pulse at her throat.
Fear. But controlled. Always controlled.
“Raffaele.”
I place my hand on her lower back—light, guiding—and steer her toward my table. The touch is professional. Appropriate. I’m aware of every inch of contact anyway.
“This isn’t a date,” I clarify as I pull out her chair.
“I didn’t think it was.” She sits. Spine straight. Chin lifted. “You don’t strike me as the dinner-and-flowers type.”
“Good. I’d hate to be bad at my job.”
She sits, arranging the red silk around her legs with more grace than I expected. “And my job? What kind of work requires evening wear?”
“The organization has functions. Galas. Fundraisers.” I take my seat and signal for menus. “I need to know if you can handle them.”
“Handle them. You mean stand there, smile, and look presentable while you conduct business.”
“That’s part of it.”
“And the rest?”
“Pay attention. Listen. Remember what matters.”
She turns a page. “So, decorative and functional.”
