Page 283 of Rosetti Family New York
"Could you?" He moves closer, close enough to touch but not quite making contact. "Because from where I was watching, it looked like you were struggling with the performance."
"You've been watching all evening?"
"I've been watching you since you set foot in New York."
That’s terrifying. Simply terrifying. So why aren’t I running away? The magnetism of this man is keeping my feet planted on the tiles.
"Emilio..." I start, but words fail me.
"Go back to your table," he says quietly, stepping aside to give me clear path to the door. "Finish your dinner. Sell whatever story will keep Chase's suspicions at bay."
“They’ll kill you. Chase has this place surrounded. Half the diners are his men. You’ll never get away.”
I’ve wanted nothing more than to forget this man for three years, so I should be pleased that he is about to die. It would simplify everything. But I can’t shake the pleading tone from my voice.
His lip twitches in the beginning of a smile. “I didn’t know you still cared.”
Those words sit between us, making the air thick and making it hard to breathe. His cologne is suddenly suffocating, and my thoughts have turned to mush.
“I don’t,” I finally manage to say.
Emilio’s eyes narrow into an expression I’ve never seen on his face. Anger? Disappointment? Barely contained rage?
“Don’t concern yourself with me, sweetheart,” he snarls. “If there’s one thing the Ghost can do, it’s disappear.” I turn to leave, and he grabs my wrist. “You're safe from Callahan, Mara. You've always been safe from everyone except me."
My throat tightens with emotion I can't afford to process. Not here, not now, not when Connor's blood still stains the tiles and Chase's men are waiting just outside.
"This isn't over," I whisper, echoing Connor's words but meaning something entirely different.
"No," Emilio agrees, his smile devastating. "It's just beginning."
4
Emilio
Ifeel like I was born and raised in this chair, my eyes glued to the screens showing her in high-definition clarity. The espresso next to me has gone cold, leaving rings on the marble. None of that matters. Nothing matters except the woman in frame fourteen-A.
The Grand Metropolitan's security system is a marvel of modern paranoia, cameras everywhere, motion sensors in the walls, even audio pickups disguised as smoke detectors. What the hotel's security team doesn't know is that I've hacked into their network. Every angle, every feed, all focused on room 1408.
On her.
Mara sits at the window overlooking Central Park, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder as she stares into space. The timestamp reads 2:17 AM. She hasn't slept, hasn't even tried. Just sits there, still, as if carrying an unbearable weight. I know her routine by heart: restless nights, troubled sleep from dawn to noon, careful movements in daylight when she thinks people are watching.
She has no idea how closely I'm watching.
The bedroom camera captures her profile perfectly, the curve of her neck where I used to kiss, the elegant line of her spine beneath the silk. She's thinner than when she left, all sharp angles now. But still beautiful. Still mine, even if she doesn't know it yet.
Through the feed, I watch her nightly ritual: checking locks with meticulous care, placing a chair against the door despite the security systems. The carefulness of someone who knows safety is just an illusion and preparation is the only prayer that works.
She goes to the thermostat, wrapping her robe tighter as she adjusts the temperature. Sixty-seven degrees, too cold for someone who used to steal my warmth at night, pressing icy feet against me and laughing when I cursed in Italian.
I type into the hotel's climate control system. A few keystrokes, and the temperature rises to seventy-two degrees. The setting she needs to sleep, though she always refused to admit it.
She stops mid-step, tilting her head as the vents come to life. Confusion crosses her face, but she doesn't investigate. Not yet. She just accepts the warmth.
In the kitchen camera, I see her open the minibar. Inside, she finds the wine she discovered in Prague, bottles that aren't usually in a standard hotel minibar. Her fingers trace the label.
"Impossible," she whispers, though there's less doubt in her voice than you'd expect.
