Page 134 of Vicious Games

We start our date at Ann Sather, where Lucky insists I have to try the cinnamon rolls ‘or the whole day’s ruined,’ as he would say with a serious tone while crossing his arms and furrowing his brow. I would think he’s joking until I taste them and nearly cry. We sit in a little booth, the sunlight pooling through the window, and he steals the last bite off my plate like a criminal, his eyes gleaming as if he just got away with something major.

From there, we hop on the ‘L’ train with the casual ease of someone born into the city’s rhythm. We ride to Wicker Park, where he shows me a mural he helped Annamaria paint when he was ‘fifteen and dumber than he is now.’ It’s bright, bold, and a little messy, kind of like him. And, of course, I love it.

After that, we walk to an old convenience store nearby, where we grab slushies like kids ditching school. He dares me to race him down the sidewalk, and I lose, of course. Spectacularly so. But when he grabs my hand afterward, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I forget all about keeping scores on our little games.

Later, we wander around Lincoln Park Zoo, which I find hilariously romantic.

“I just come here to watch the monkeys fling poop on everyone,” he jokes, but then lights up when he watches me lean over the railing to gawk at the lions cuddling each other to keep warm. When he buys me one of those ridiculous stuffed giraffes from the gift shop, I promise myself that I’m never throwing it away, not even when I’m eighty.

We continue to venture through the city on foot for a while, and even though it’s silly for me to think so, I have this crazy suspicion that Lucky made Chi-town come alive just for our date. There’s music on every corner, and food trucks parked like summer decided to last forever. The sky overhead is a perfect patchwork of blue and sun and city noise.

Even though it’s a cold winter’s day, we end up on the Lakefront Trail, shoes off, sitting at the edge of the water with Chicago’s skyline rising behind us like something out of a movie. To keep us entertained, Lucky skips rocks and pretends to be bad at it just to make me laugh.

It works. Of course, it works. Everything Lucky does works on me, apparently.

Though he hasn’t kissed me yet, the space between us closes every so often. He leans in, brushing his shoulder against mine, ensuring our legs touch. My heart doesn’t just beat. It stammers, stumbles, and falls.

I don’t even remember what we were talking about when his hand finds mine. Easy, as if it were meant to belong there.

As we watch the sun say its goodbyes, I know. God help me, I know. That I’m completely in love with him. That I love Luciano Romano with all my heart. Not because of the skyline, or the cinnamon rolls, or the way he made fun of my slushie mustache. But because I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be for the first time in a long time. Right here, next to him.

“I’ve got one more surprise,” Lucky says, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like this. Not smug, not teasing. Just excited. As if sitting on this secret all day, dying to watch it unfold.

“Should I be scared?” I ask as he pulls me up.

“No,” he whispers, running his knuckles ever so gently over my cheeks. “You’ll never have to be afraid with me.”

How about petrified? Because by the way my heart is thumping, I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out just by the longing in his eyes.

Lucky’s penetrating gaze falls to my lips, lingering on them for a minute before he catches himself and says, “Come on. We’ll need to get back to the car for my next surprise.”

“Okay,” I mutter, disheartened that he didn’t kiss me. But the sting quickly evaporates when he threads his fingers with mine.

Thirty minutes later, we pull up in front of a restaurant so elegant I almost ask if we’re lost. The windows glow amber from the inside, and through them, I see crystal glasses, white linen tablecloths, and people dressed as if they just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.

“We’re having dinner here? This place?” I blink, looking down at my outfit—jeans and a knit sweater, nothing remotely close to couture. “Lucky, I don’t—”

Before I can tell him this may not be a good idea, he’s already out of the car, holding the door open for me. “Come on, Frankie. Trust me.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m just… underdressed.”

“You could wear a sack over your head and still be the most beautiful girl in the room,” he says with quiet certainty, threading his fingers through mine like it’s second nature to him.

Like I belong with him.To him.

Lucky leads me inside with that same confident ease he’s carried all day, nodding at the host, who greets him like an old friend before opening a sleek, matte-black door at the back of the dining room.

Wait. Is he taking us to the kitchen?

I get my answer when we step into the organized chaos of chefs calling orders, flames flicking up from sauté pans, and the smell of butter, garlic, and fresh herbs hanging heavy in the air.

I barely manage to breathe it all in before a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pristine chef’s coat turns around with a grin and says, “Ah! So this is the girl who’s going to out-cook us all one day, eh?”

“Wait? You’re… Chef Luca Moretti?” He laughs and reaches out to shake my hand, the warmth and richness of his laughter making me giddy.

“I hear that you’re like me, someone who appreciates good food. Well, tonight, you’re going to eat it the right way. In the heart of the kitchen.”

My brain short-circuits for a second. Lucky just leans close to whisper, “You okay?”

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