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She stared at me for a long moment, the playfulness draining from her eyes, replaced by something more complex.

"Daddy." Her voice softened. "Are you worried I won't accept her?"

"Not entirely." I sighed. "But it's one of the things she'll have to face."

Isabella went quiet for several seconds. Then she smiled.

"You know what? All these years I've been worried you'd die alone." Her voice dropped. "All those women coming and going, but not one lasted more than two days. I kept thinking you stayed single because of me..."

She paused, something soft flickering in her eyes.

"So if there's really someone who..." she gestured at my face, "puts that look on your face, I'm behind you one hundred percent."

A flash—Isa as a little girl, screaming herself hoarse when I was gone, forcing me to abandon family business just to come home and hold her. Now she'd grown up.

"Good luck, Daddy." Isabella slipped back into her irreverent tone. She raised her glass and winked. "And good luck to my future new mom—whoever she is—surviving the Moretti family madness."

I raised my glass. Metal clinked dully against glass.

Dinner wrapped up quickly.

At eight-thirty, Isabella pulled on her coat and grabbed her keys. "I'm heading back to Brooklyn. Eight a.m. meeting with the editor-in-chief tomorrow to fight about story pitches." She turned, waving. "Oh, and good luck with your date tomorrow. Even though I don't know who she is, I'm already giving her high marks in my head—"

"Isa..." I sighed.

She laughed. "Bye, Daddy. Love you."

The door shut. The lock clicked home.

The whole townhouse sank back into silence.

I climbed the stairs to my second-floor study, opened the window, lit a Cohiba.

Cold wind carried fine rain against my face. Midtown Manhattan's skyscrapers rose like gravestones in the dark.

My eyes dropped to the rosewood desk. A note pressed under a paperweight, handwriting scrawled across it.

NY-M7709. Seven tomorrow night.

The cigar between my fingers glowed red.

That old Tuscan place tucked in a basement in Greenwich Village—I'd already called the owner.

Tomorrow night, no social-climbing elites. No eyes making her feel scrutinized or out of place. Just old-world Palermo craft. Strong fire, unlabeled wine, candlelight dim enough to see only our two faces.

I needed her to know—she wasn't some business trip footnote, some fleeting distraction, some cheap thrill.

I was one hundred percent serious about her.

As for Isabella...

I exhaled, drank deep from my whiskey.

I knew they'd have to meet eventually. But not now. Not until Ruby truly accepted me, accepted what we had, accepted everything she might face.

When that time came, I'd introduce her to Isabella properly. Make sure she understood how much this woman meant to me.

But before that, I needed Ruby to believe she deserved to be loved. Deserved happiness.