Page 7 of King of Manhattan

The hint of a hard past in his voice catches me off guard. It's a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, and it makes something in my chest tighten. "She sounds like a strong woman," I say softly.

He nods, his eyes distant and hard. "She had to be. She taught me that survival sometimes means making difficult choices. That the world isn't black and white, no matter what some people might believe."

I feel the weight of his words, the challenge in them. "And is that what you're doing, Vince? Making difficult choices to survive?"

His gaze snaps back to mine, intense and unreadable. "We all do what we have to, Emily. The question is, can you accept that?"

It's a loaded question, one I'm not sure I have an answer to. Instead of responding, I gesture towards the next gallery. "Why don't you show me more of your favorite pieces? I'm curious to see what else catches the eye of Vincent Russo."

He studies me for a moment longer before nodding, a small smile playing at his lips. "As you wish, counselor."

As we continue through the museum, I find myself both drawn to and wary of Vince. He's clearly knowledgeable about art, pointing out details I would have missed and sharing anecdotes about the artists and their works. But there's always an undercurrent of danger, a reminder that this man operates in a world very different from my own.

After the Met, we head to a hot dog stand on the corner. Vince insists it's a quintessential New York experience after a museum visit.

"You know," I say, eyeing the cart dubiously, "when you said you wanted to treat me to lunch, I was thinking more along the lines of Le Grande Boucherie, not Le Cart-on-the-Corner."

Vince grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Trust me, counselor. These hot dogs are to die for. Besides, I thought you'd appreciate a man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty."

"Let's hope that's not literal," I mutter, but accept the loaded dog he hands me. To my surprise, it's delicious.

As we walk through Central Park, enjoying our impromptu lunch, Vince suddenly pulls me close, his arm a steel band around my waist.

"You know," I quip, trying to lighten the sudden tension, "if you wanted to hold me, you could've just asked. No need for the caveman routine."

His lips quirk, but his eyes remain vigilant, scanning our surroundings. "Careful what you wish for, Emily. I might just take you up on that offer. But right now, we're being watched."

My heart races as I try to spot what he's seen. "Who—"

"Rival business interests," he says tersely. "Don't worry. They won't try anything in public."

The implication that they might try something elsewhere hangs unspoken between us. I want to question it, but decide I’d rather not know. Vince takes out his phone and sends a quick text, then nods and relaxes his shoulders. I guess that means things are taken care of?

We find a quiet spot by the lake, and Vince surprises me by pulling out a small sketchpad from his jacket.

"Don't tell me you're an artist too," I tease, grateful for the distraction from my swirling thoughts.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Hardly. But sometimes it helps me clear my head, to try and capture a moment on paper."

As he begins to draw, I notice a faint scar on his wrist, previously hidden by his watch. "War wound?" I ask lightly, trying to mask my curiosity.

His eyes flick up to mine, dark and unreadable. "Something like that. Let's just say not all business negotiations end amicably."

I swallow hard, reminded once again of the danger that seems to cling to Vince like a second skin. "And how often do your... negotiations turn physical?"

He sets down his pencil, giving me his full attention. "Are you asking as a lawyer or as a woman who's trying to decide if I'm worth the risk?"

"Can't it be both?" I challenge.

Vince leans closer, his voice low and intense. "I do what I have to do to protect what's mine, Emily. Sometimes that means playing by rules that aren't found in any law book. But I'm not a mindless thug, despite what you might have heard. Everything I do has a purpose."

"And what purpose does spending the day with me serve?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. "That, beautiful, is something I'm still figuring out."

The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility and danger in equal measure. Finally, I clear my throat, needing to break the tension before I do something reckless, like kissing him in broad daylight.

"So," I say, gesturing to his sketchpad, "are you going to show me your masterpiece or do I have to guess?"

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