Page 77

I'd assumed he'd take me to one of those Fifth Avenue spots that needed three months' advance booking, where the waiters wore white tails, and I'd be nervous from start to finish.

Instead, the car headed south, finally turning into a narrow, quiet cobblestone alley deep in Greenwich Village, stopping in front of a sunken, heavy dark wood door.

Marcelo pushed the door open for me, ducking his head to shield mine as I walked down two stone steps.

The moment we entered, a wave of heat—sourdough, rosemary, burning firewood—crashed over me.

He'd brought me to an Italian spot tucked into a red-brick half-basement.

This place was nothing like those Fifth Avenue restaurants, nothing like that lazy private kitchen in Paris's Marais. Low wood beams darkened by years of smoke and fire hung overhead. The walls held faded black-and-white photos of old Brooklyn docks and rust-stained vintage Sicilian hunting rifles. Two men in loose overcoats sat in the corner—when they saw Marcelo, they immediately set down their glasses and nodded.

Straight ahead, an open stone pizza oven crackled with bright charcoal fire, the air thick with rough charcoal-grilled meat and the secret scent of hard liquor.

"Good evening, Marcelo." A white-haired old woman leaned out from behind the bar, greeting him in extremely familiar Italian. She didn't even ask for our order, just smiled and nodded at us.

We took a corner booth against the wall.

"I thought you'd take me to Le Bernardin or some French place." I draped my coat over the chair back, looking around. My shoulders, tense all day, miraculously relaxed.

"Those places—the foie gras and truffles are for impressing people who care about that stuff. Refined, sure, but all those tedious rules get tiresome." Marcelo poured me a glass of deep red wine with no label. "Here, nobody's watching which fork you use. And the pasta's Tuscan, old-school. Really good."

Warmth bloomed in my chest, almost painful.

The boss of IS·MA Group uncomfortable with fancy restaurants? Yeah right. He'd just picked up on my anxiety about places crawling with socialites.

I lifted the glass and took a small sip. Rich fruit exploded on my tongue with a rough edge, like sun-baked earth.

Mary was wrong. Not every man with power was an asshole.

"About that day in Paris..." I set down the glass, picking at the edge of the rough linen tablecloth, breaking the silence.

"That was my fault. I'm sorry, little rose." He cut through my hesitation directly, those gray-green eyes deep and calm in the candlelight. "I shouldn't have hidden the fact that I have a daughter. I didn't mean to hide it from you—I just hadn't figured out how to tell you... But everything I said was true. It was a business arrangement my family set up when I was seventeen. There was no love between us, not even basic conversation. We divorced after she gave birth. She went to Europe. Haven't seen her more than a handful of times since."

He paused.

"I raised my daughter alone." His expression softened. "She's the most important person in my life. But that doesn't mean I can't have my own life."

His low, honest voice settled in the small booth with its flickering candles—no evasion or excuses, just raw sincerity.

My heart pounded. Words I'd kept buried suddenly spilled out.

"Actually... when I walked out that day, it wasn't entirely because you have a daughter." I lowered my eyes, watching the candlelight dance in my wine glass, laughing bitterly. "I was just terrified. Terrified I was just a joke in your life."

Maybe it was the warm wheat scent and alcohol, maybe those eyes reflecting hot flames—for the first time, I stripped away all pretense, laying out every rotting wound I'd never told anyone about.

"I grew up in Hoboken, in a basement full of damp and mold." My voice dropped. "My mother Mary spent her whole life resenting my father for abandoning her. Every day she told me that girls like me—no background, plain-looking, poor—if we reached for anything beyond our station, we'd get smashed to pieces... So I had to protect myself. I couldn't let anyone break me like that."

The man across from me didn't interrupt.

Marcelo watched me quietly, fingers slightly curled on the rough wooden table. That face, usually so decisive and cold, held no pity, no condescending sympathy—just a heavy, solid gaze that seemed ready to catch any weight I threw at it.

"That's not your fault, Ruby." He spoke quietly, voice hotter than the fireplace logs. "Your mother got her spine broken by suffering, so she tried to bind you with the same fear. But you're different. You're smart, talented, kind, brave. You stood up for a stranger in that Paris gallery. And watching you shine in your field—God, it's fucking sexy."

The sudden shift to playful praise hit like hot sparks against my chest.

The heavy, sad atmosphere shattered instantly.

"Marcelo!" My cheeks flamed, ears burning. I couldn't even look at those bottomless eyes anymore.