Page 2 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

Marco's Trattoria sits on the corner of Main and Fifth, a converted brownstone with red-checked curtains and a hand-painted sign that Marco made himself. I remember the day he hung it—prouder than I'd ever seen him, grinning like a kid who'd just discovered Christmas.

"Gonna build something real, brother. Something that lasts."

The memory hurts. They all do.

I park across the street, killing the engine but not getting off the bike. The restaurant's still open—warm light spilling through the windows, the faint sound of music drifting out when someone exits. But Hammer wasn't wrong. The place looks tired. The paint's peeling near the roofline. One of the window boxes is empty, dead plants cleared out and never replaced.

Through the glass, I can see maybe four tables occupied. On a Thursday night, that's not terrible. But I remember when this place was packed seven days a week, when Mara had to turn people away at the door.

That was before.

Before the run that went wrong. Before the ambush. Before I held her husband while he bled out and made promises I've spent two years breaking.

Go home, the smart part of my brain says. You've seen enough. Send Diesel tomorrow with cash⁠—

The front door opens.

And there she is.

Mara.

Two years since I've been this close, and the sight of her still hits me like a freight train. Dark hair pinned up in that messy twist she wears for kitchen work. Curves that could make a man forget his own name, even hidden under a stained apron. She's thinner than I remember—stress carving shadows under her eyes, hollowing out her cheeks—but she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

She doesn't notice me. Too busy talking to the customer she's walking out, her smile warm even though exhaustion bleeds through every line of her body.

I should leave. Right now, before she⁠—

Her head turns. Her eyes find me.

Everything stops.

For a second, neither of us moves. The customer says something, but Mara doesn't hear it—she's staring at me like she's seen a ghost. And maybe she has. The ghost of a man who swore to take care of her and then vanished.

I force myself off the bike.

The restaurant's even quieter inside. Two couples at separate tables, an old man nursing wine near the window. The hostess—young, unfamiliar—starts to greet me before Mara cuts her off.

"I've got this one, Gina."

Her voice is steady. Professional. But I catch the tremor underneath, the crack she's trying to hide.

"Pope." She says my name like it costs her something. "Been a while."

Understatement of the fucking century. "Mara."

"You want a table?" She grabs a menu without waiting for an answer, that fake smile firmly in place. "We've got plenty available tonight."

I follow her to a booth in the back corner, watching the way she moves—still graceful, still hypnotic, but with a new weight dragging at her shoulders. She sets down the menu, pulls out her order pad like this is just business.

It's not.

"I'll get your water. Our special tonight is⁠—"

"Mara."

She stops. Swallows hard. Doesn't meet my eyes.

"Why are you here?" The professional mask slips, and underneath it, I see anger. Pain. The same things I've been carrying for two years, reflected back at me. "You've been avoiding me since the funeral. Couldn't even look at me when they put him in the ground. And now you just show up like nothing happened?"