Page 2 of Lorenzo

“You also have a father who notices everything.”

That should be enough to make him reconsider.

It is not.

Across the room, the woman in red turns from the bar and begins walking toward him.

The crowd seems to part for her. Not dramatically. Nothing that anyone else would notice. But Alessio notices. The way people shift to let her pass. The way men look and then look again. The way she moves as if she is used to being watched and has long ago decided whether to care.

By the time she reaches him, Dante has muttered something in Italian under his breath and stepped away.

Coward.

The woman smiles.

Up close, she is even more beautiful. Dark hair swept over one shoulder. Red mouth. Eyes the sort of pale green that look too deliberate to be real, as if someone painted them for trouble.

“Your friend disapproves of me,” she says.

“My friend disapproves of almost everything,” Alessio says.

“Does he?”

“He would say no. But he lies to himself.”

Her smile widens slightly. “And you?”

“I try not to.”

“Admirable.”

“Occasionally.”

She laughs then, low and warm, and Alessio feels it move through him in a way it probably should not.

He offers his hand. “Alessio.”

She looks at his hand for half a second before placing hers in it. Her fingers are cool. Slender. Stronger than they look.

“Genevieve.”

He repeats it, because it suits her.

Genevieve.

Her eyes flicker at the sound of her name in his mouth.

That is the moment he should recognize the hook for what it is.

Instead, he lets himself enjoy it.

They talk at the edge of the bar while the club pulses around them. Nothing heavy at first. Nothing that matters. The music. The city. The absurd price of cocktails in rooms where no one ever admits to caring about money. She asks him if he comes here often, and he tells her no, which is not exactly true. She says she is in Chicago for a few days, and he asks for work or pleasure.

She looks at him over the rim of her glass.

“That depends on how the night goes.”

He should laugh.