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Gianni's eyes bounced between me and Ruby for three full seconds. His grin turned knowing. Sly.

He jabbed my ribs hard with his elbow, eyebrows waggling as he muttered in thick Sicilian dialect.

"Eh bravo, Marcello... Non mi avevi detto che avevi finalmente trovato una ragazza!" (Well, well, Marcelo... You didn't tell me you finally found yourself a real girlfriend! That figure, those eyes—beats those New York stick figures by a mile!)

I glanced sideways at Ruby.

She clearly couldn't understand the rapid-fire Sicilian, but she'd picked up on something from Gianni's exaggerated expression and teasing tone. Her peach-soft face flushed visibly, eyes confused and a little embarrassed.

I didn't correct Gianni's assumption. Didn't clarify that word—"girlfriend"—which carried serious weight in mafia circles.

I just met Gianni's gossipy, excited stare as I unbuttoned my wool coat and hung it casually on the coat rack. Eyes crinkling in the dim lamplight. Smiling low.

"Forse, Gianni. Forse.(Maybe, Gianni. Maybe so.)"

Chapter 14

Ruby

The red wine Gianni brought out had the deep, rich scent of oak and ripe black cherries.

The dark liquid swirled in the tall glass, catching the dim yellow glow of the old chandelier overhead. The table wasn't large, covered with a worn but spotless red-and-white checkered cloth. Marcelo and I sat across from each other, our knees nearly bumping in the cramped space beneath.

I lifted my glass and took three long gulps.

The warm alcohol slid down my throat, melting away the afternoon's terror in that Montmartre dead end, the sting of my scraped elbow on the cobblestones, and the cold dread of watching those two men in black drag away a living person with practiced efficiency.

My knife sliced through the perfectly seared beef short rib. Rich juice and black truffle fragments exploded on my tongue. I swallowed, my lips stained with a thin sheen of wine.

"This beats the hell out of those Manhattan fine-dining spots where they measure sauce with an eyedropper." I set down my fork, fingers tracing the stem of my glass. "And it's quieter."

Marcelo leaned back in his wooden chair, sleeves still rolled to his elbows, exposing the solid lines of his forearms. His glass was barely touched, those gray-green eyes deep as a well in the dim light, fixed on me. "Gianni never uses recipes. Grew up in Sicily. Only trusts heat and spices."

"I can tell. He's not like regular restaurant chefs." I smiled, took another sip, tasted the sweet berry notes on my tongue. "What did he say to you in Italian earlier? He looked at me like I was some kind of exotic specimen."

The corner of Marcelo's mouth lifted faintly. He raised his glass, took a sip. "He said you have a hell of a lot more life in you than those women who survive on salad leaves."

"I don't buy that." I snorted softly, Gianni's winking expression flashing through my mind, but the alcohol made my thoughts lazy and bold. I didn't press the issue.

A few glasses in, my cheeks started burning, the usually tight grip on my nerves completely loosening.

"Actually... the day before yesterday at the fabric exhibition, I ran into the weirdest supplier." I set down my knife and fork, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table. The small scissor charm on my leather bracelet clinked softly against the surface. "This old guy from Lyon kept insisting their raw silk was boiled in ancient monastery spring water, said it carried a purifying magnetic field. I felt the weft right there—clearly industrial silicone for that smooth finish, even the moisture regain was off."

Marcelo didn't interrupt. He actually set down his utensils, hands folded on the table's edge, fully listening. "What did you do?"

"I told him if monastery holy water was really that miraculous, his looms probably needed an exorcism first, because the third bolt had at least twelve broken warp joints." I laughed at the memory. "His face looked like he'd swallowed a whole lemon. Even his beard was shaking."

"Sharp-tongued little rose." A trace of amusement flickered in Marcelo's eyes. "But you saved the group's procurement budget. Durand got burned by that workshop two years ago. Bought thirty bolts of so-called Holy Water Silk. Entire batch turned to paste in the dye vat."

"Seriously?" My eyes widened, that burst of validation fizzing in my chest like champagne bubbles. "The master of haute couture made that kind of rookie mistake?"

"In fashion, blind faith in authority is the fastest road to bankruptcy." His tone was even, gaze locked on my flushed, excited face. "But this time, we were lucky to have you."

Under that stare, my heart lurched. I looked down quickly, grabbing my wine glass to cover the moment, gulping down another mouthful. Frantically searching for something to change the subject.

The alcohol must have completely dismantled my defenses, because all those trivial details I'd never share with anyone came pouring out like a broken dam.

"Oh! And yesterday afternoon, look at this! Aren't they gorgeous? While you were negotiating with that booth manager, I found these at the button display next door!" I carefully pulled out two delicate little buttons, my voice bright in a way that felt foreign even to me. "A whole box! Nineteenth-century shell buttons. All hand-cut serrated edges, every single one a different thickness. I crouched on the floor picking through them forever. The vendor saw how formally I was dressed and figured I was some heiress who could afford antiques. Then I emptied my pockets and scraped together eight euros in coins. Could only afford two damaged seconds..."