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This misunderstanding sparked faint guilt somewhere deep in my eyes. But more than that—something almost despicably satisfied. She was opening up to me. Trying to understand my darkness instead of screaming and running like those spoiled New York princesses.

"Then we're even." My voice came out soft. I leaned back, mouth curving into that familiar easy arc. "Your elbow still hurt?"

"Just scraped skin. I've gotten steam iron burns ten times worse doing pattern work at the studio." She shrugged, trying for casual, but when I reached for her forearm, she still flinched instinctively.

I caught her wrist, thumb brushing over the little scissors tattoo covering that old burn, then glanced at her scraped elbow.

I pulled a band-aid from my pocket, carefully smoothing it over her wound. "Didn't think the stuff I grabbed from the first aid kit this morning would actually come in handy." After finishing, I released her hand and checked my watch. "Given today's stimulating little detour, I'd say both our nerves could use some high-calorie comfort and quality alcohol."

Ruby blinked, defenses completely down now, pure confusion showing. "Now?"

"Now." I stood, extending my hand while picking up her supply bag. "Three in the afternoon—perfect time for slacking off in Paris. I know a place tucked away in the backstreets. Want to try it?"

Ruby sat on that bench, head tilted back against the sunlight, looking up at me.

For two seconds, she seemed to weigh whatever danger might be lurking behind this invitation. But finally, she took a deep breath and placed that soft, slightly calloused little hand back in my palm.

"As long as it's not some three-Michelin-star raw greens situation, I'm completely on board." She stood, let me pull her close. "I'm starving."

"Don't worry. You'll be stuffed, little rose."

Leaving Montmartre, I didn't make her squeeze onto the metro again. Two plainclothes men who'd been tailing us discreetly left an unremarkable black Peugeot at the corner, keys tucked inside the windshield.

I drove Ruby across the quiet cobblestones of the Left Bank, finally turning into an impossibly narrow Latin Quarter alley barely wide enough for one car.

Deep in the alley stood a heavy oak door painted dark green. A brass lantern hung over the lintel. No sign. Just a wooden plaque hooked on the doorknob reading "Private Party" in French.

I pushed the door open. A small copper bell chimed above the entryway.

Inside, the light was dim and warm. The air thick with truffle, slow-braised short rib, and fresh rosemary. Brick walls covered in yellowed black-and-white photographs and vinyl records. Only six solid wood tables draped in red-and-white checkered cloth. Empty right now.

"Siamo chiusi!(We're closed!)"

A rough, booming male voice came from behind the kitchen curtain, accompanied by the clatter of pans.

Then a stocky middle-aged man with a shock of gray curls pushed through the curtain. Oil-stained apron. Boning knife in hand. Face all hard angles and sharp lines like an old Sicilian butcher.

But when he saw who stood in the entrance hall, that knife nearly slipped from his grip.

"Madre di Dio! (Mother of God!)"

His eyes went wide. He ripped off his apron, threw it on a nearby chair, and charged over with arms spread wide. Grabbed my shoulders in a crushing hug, yelling in Italian right in my ear.

"Marcelo! You goddamn bastard! What are you doing in Paris? Last time you walked through my door was three years ago when you were negotiating with those Corsican sons of bitches!"

"Quit shouting, Gianni. They can hear your foghorn two streets over." I clapped his back, pried us apart, grinning as I switched to fluid Italian. "I brought a guest. Haul out that aged Chianti and black truffles you're hiding in back. Don't try pawning off tourist garbage on me."

Gianni barked out a laugh and wiped his greasy forehead with a towel.

Only then did his gaze shift past my shoulder to Ruby standing slightly behind me, looking a little out of place.

Ruby was taking in the surroundings with those big amber eyes. When Gianni's sharp, appraising stare swept over her, she straightened instinctively, right hand clutching nervously at her trench coat hem.

A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Gianni's face.

As a former Palermo street enforcer who'd laundered money for my father before retiring to run this underground joint in Paris, Gianni had seen every woman who'd passed through my orbit—cold runway models for show, Hollywood actresses, aristocratic heiresses angling for arranged marriages. But he'd never seen anyone like Ruby.

Curvy. Soft. Peach-colored cheeks. Simple flat boots and trench coat. Not a single expensive piece of jewelry. Yet radiating something you'd only find in classical paintings—wild and innocent at once.