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I study the two women, both dressed in bright pink dresses. I am pretty sure they are escorts. If it was literally any other night, I would have stopped them and tried to get a bit more information from them. But not tonight, tonight I have a date with Luca.
I glance at the mirror in the dimly lit restroom and fluff my newly blonde hair. It’s taken me close to two years to get used to the color, but at work they insisted that a change in my appearance would be exactly what I needed to go undercover as an FBI agent.
I look at my nose, slightly curved, and the cheekbones that are now pronounced thanks to the subtle magic of contouring. Botox has played its part, altering the size and shape of my lips.
I turn my face from side to side, hardly recognizing myself. I was once a brunette, just like my mom. My new shade of blonde looks deceivingly natural.
All I have that still reminds me of her are the kohl-lined gray eyes. I look at them, watching her eyes reflected back at me. The pang of pain causes me to look away. Instead, I grab my lipstick, a fiery shade of crimson with a matte finish.
I apply a fresh coat, carefully tracing the contours of my lips, and blotting them together to ensure an even, velvety finish.
Then I spritz myself with my signature perfume which I selected for nights like this. It’s the kind of fragrance that lingers in the air, leaving a trail of intrigue as I pass by. It also grants me anonymity.
Confirming I look amazing, or at least as close to amazing as my undercover persona can be, I take out my phone to text my friend Sophie.
Heading out to meet him. I’ll text you later
I send the message and wait for her response.
A thumbs-up emoji appears on my screen a few minutes later.
With one final glance in the mirror, I square my shoulders, adopting the confident posture I’ve learned to wear like a second skin.
It’s showtime. I step out of the washroom and reenter the throng of La Terrazza’s patrons.
I look around trying to find my date. My eyes snag on the older man from earlier. He has his arms around a blonde girl, his face buried in her neck. Seems he has a type.
I make my way past him as fast as I can.
I’m walking through the crowded bar when a waiter carelessly bumps into me, sending a cold cascade of drinks spilling onto my hand. He mumbles an apology and quickly begins wiping up the mess. I give him a small, understanding smile and a nod, but my attention has shifted.
My eyes lock onto him, my target. Dressed head to toe in a sleek black suit, he stands out like a shadow in the dimly lit room. His wavy, disheveled hair seems to flop in every direction, giving him a casual charm that belies the calculated danger lurking beneath. A glint of his gold watch catches my eye as he lifts a glass filled with amber liquid to his lips.
One of the women, dressed in a seductive shade of pink, is openly flirting with him. Her laughter is too loud, her touch too familiar. He obliges with a casual laugh before his eyes flicker around the room and, as if by some magnetic force, lock onto me.
Perfect, just as I’d hoped.
Rather than walking directly towards him, I opt for a calculated approach. I bite gently on my lip and flutter my eyes, my gaze feigning an enticing invitation. Then, with a deliberate sway in my step, I make my way to the bar. The plan is simple: wait. I’ve studied him enough to know he’ll be here any minute now.
I place my handbag on the counter with an exaggerated sigh of relief, drawing the bartender’s attention. He hurries over, andI seize the moment to order a cocktail. “A mojito, please,” I request, making sure my voice carries a hint of sultriness. The bartender nods and begins preparing my drink, giving me the perfect excuse to linger by the bar.
The man in the black suit is momentarily distracted by the woman in pink, who’s draped herself over him with unapologetic familiarity. I can see the tension in his jaw as he smiles politely. Luca is a pro at this, playing the part of the charming stranger who’s enthralled by a woman’s charms.
At the end of the night, he always finds someone to go home with, and tonight, I need that person to be me.
I bide my time, stealing glances in his direction. He’s engaged in a conversation, but his gaze periodically drifts toward me. I know he’s intrigued, or perhaps suspicious, and that’s exactly where I want him.
Moments later, he excuses himself from the pink-clad woman, whose expression is a mix of disappointment and annoyance. As he begins to approach the bar, I feel a rush of adrenaline. It’s showtime.
“Here’s your mojito,” the bartender says, placing the frosty glass in front of me.
I give him a gracious smile, my fingers lightly brushing his as I take the glass. Then, I turn my attention back to the approaching man in the black suit. His steps are confident, his aura exuding power and danger. It’s alluring and intimidating all at once.
He reaches the bar, and our eyes lock. The tension in the air is palpable as we size each other up. I raise my glass slightly, offering a silent toast, and his lips curl into a knowing smile. The game has officially begun.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he leans down to growl in my ear.
“Needed a night out. Work has been crazy and I needed a break.”
