Page 11 of King of Manhattan

I wake before sunrise, the silk sheets cool against my skin. For a moment, I allow myself to bask in the afterglow of the previous night, remembering Vince's touch, his taste, the way he made me feel. But reality soon comes crashing back, bringing with it a wave of conflicting emotions.

I turn to find Vince already awake, his dark eyes watching me intently. "Good morning," he murmurs, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face.

"Morning," I reply, my voice still husky with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Early," he says, a small smile playing at his lips. "But I have a busy day ahead. Care to join me for breakfast?"

I hesitate, knowing I should leave, should put some distance between us. But the pull I feel towards Vince is stronger than any sense of propriety. "Breakfast sounds great," I hear myself say.

An hour later, I find myself in his sprawling kitchen. Vince moves with easy confidence, preparing coffee and setting out an array of pastries.

"I didn't take you for the domestic type," I tease, accepting a steaming mug of coffee.

Vince's eyes glint with amusement. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Emily."

The words hang between us, laden with unspoken truths. Before I can respond, the elevator dings, and voices fill the penthouse.

"Boss? You up here?" a gruff voice calls out.

I watch as Vince's demeanor changes instantly. Gone is the relaxed man who made me coffee; in his place stands Vincent Russo, the man whispered about in courtrooms and back alleys alike. His jaw tightens, eyes hardening as he calls out, "In the kitchen, Marco."

Two men enter, both dressed in impeccably tailored suits. The first, a burly man with salt-and-pepper hair, stops short when he sees me. The second, younger and leaner, merely raises an eyebrow.

"Emily," Vince says, his voice carefully neutral, "meet Marco Bellini and Giovanni Buccini. They work with me."

I know enough about Vince's world to understand what "work with me" really means. These are his lieutenants, his inner circle. I straighten, suddenly very aware that I'm wearing yesterday's cocktail dress at 7 AM.

"Gentlemen," I nod, aiming for professional detachment.

Marco recovers first, offering a tight smile. "Ms. Bennett. Heard a lot about you."

Giovanni remains silent, his eyes darting between Vince and me with undisguised curiosity.

Vince's hand comes to rest on the small of my back, a gesture both protective and possessive. "What's so urgent it couldn't wait, Marco?"

Marco's expression grows grave. "It's the Colombians, boss. They're making noise about the shipment. Say they want to renegotiate terms."

I feel Vince stiffen beside me. "Like hell they will," he growls. "The terms were set. If they think they can strong-arm me—"

"Vince," I interrupt softly, acutely aware of the tension in the room. "Maybe I should go."

His eyes soften as they meet mine, a stark contrast to the steel in his voice when he addressed Marco. "If you’d like," he says. "I'll walk you out. Give me a minute," he adds to the men.

In the elevator, Vince pulls me close. "I'm sorry about that," he murmurs. "It wasn't how I planned to start the day."

I look up at him, studying the lines of his face. "Vince, what's going on? Who are the Colombians?"

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing for you to worry about, Emily. Just business."

The elevator doors open to the private garage. As I step out, Vince catches my arm. "Have dinner with me tonight," he says. It isn't quite a question.

Against my better judgment, I nod. "Okay. But Vince... be careful."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Always am, sweetheart."

As I drive home, my mind races. I'd known, of course, about Vince's alleged criminal activities. But seeing it up close, meeting the men who carry out his orders... it makes everything so much more real.

That evening, Vince picks me up in a sleek black Aston Martin. He's quiet as we drive, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

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