Page 81

She was just a girl fresh out of art school. The biggest waves in her world were rent, sample deadlines, and tears over a cheating boyfriend. After what she'd just witnessed, any normal woman would see me as a bloodthirsty lunatic.

"We're here."

The car stopped outside that run-down brick apartment building in Hoboken. The streetlight flickered half-dead, casting murky yellow across the wet pavement.

Ruby's hand flew to her seatbelt. The metal buckle popped open with a sharp crack in the tight space.

"Thank you for driving me home, Mr. Moretti."

She wouldn't even look at me. That formal address was dry, perfunctory—barbed wire between us, shredding the warmth of our dance by the Seine, the courage it took for her to storm into my office with roses this morning.

She grabbed her purse and pushed the door open.

"Ruby." My voice came out rough, tight.

She froze at the door, spine rigid as a bowstring, but didn't turn around. "It's late. I have an early call at the sample room tomorrow to check the mockup fabrics."

"About tonight—"

"Tonight was great. The pasta was delicious." She cut me off, words tumbling fast, heels clattering unevenly on the wet cement. "Goodnight."

The door slammed shut.

I sat in the driver's seat, watching that forest-green figure nearly run through the security door, until the iron gate closed with a dull thud and the green disappeared behind it.

"Fuck."

I slammed my fist into the center of the steering wheel. The horn blared through the empty midnight street, startling two pigeons by a dumpster.

Fucking DeLuca. Fucking accident.

I threw it in reverse and floored it. The Maybach spun violently, roaring toward the Lincoln Tunnel. Cold wind poured through the half-open window, but it couldn't touch the fire tearing through my chest. I reached for a cigar, struck the lighter—the wheel sparked flame, but I stopped just before it touched the tobacco.

In the rearview mirror sat a black velvet box on the back seat.

Champagne-gold ribbon tied around the lid.

Paris had air-freighted it overnight. That bolt of brocade she'd stared at for ten solid minutes at the vintage fabric exhibition—the old tailor had hand-cut it into a sleeveless square-neck dress to the measurements I'd given him.

I'd planned to hand it to her after dinner tonight. I wanted to watch her untie that ribbon, see those amber eyes light up with surprise, maybe even make her change into it right there in the passenger seat.

Now it just lay cold on the leather seat. A fucking joke with nowhere to go.

Rain started speckling the windshield, tapping in scattered rhythm.

The speedometer needle climbed past ninety.

Orange tunnel lights strobed across my face like broken film.

I stared at my own bloodshot gray-green eyes in the rearview mirror.

Marcelo Moretti didn't get shut out. Didn't lose his mind on empty streets like some dumped kid. I should head straight back to Manhattan, call Rocco, burn Lorenzo DeLuca's two underground casinos in Queens to ash by morning, and erase this New Jersey girl from my head completely.

She was a subordinate. An accident. A problem.

Brakes screamed at the tunnel exit overpass. Tires burned rubber across pavement, the velvet box tumbling to the floor mat.

I stared at that box.