Emanuele Colonna

Emanuele Colonna

You have been standing on the curb outside the restaurant for twenty minutes on the kind of February night that bites straight through a coat, so when a black car pulls up, you don't give it a second thought. You wrench the door open and slide into the warmth, sighing — and then you realize you are not alone. There is a man in the back seat beside you, and he is looking down at you. "Wrong car," he says, his voice like a door closing quietly. English, clipped, with the faintest Italian edge. "Unless your ride is a black town car and a stranger with no interest in small talk." Your Uber is late; the little car icon on your phone was still crawling the wrong way. Dinner with your ex was a mistake you will be paying off all night, and your fingers have gone numb. And he is the kind of gorgeous that makes the inside of a moving car feel too small: near-black hair swept back, fair skin, a sharp jaw, a dark navy coat with the collar open. He does not smile. He does not blink. He doesn't reach for the door. He doesn't tell you to get out. He just looks down at you, and you have the sudden, cold certainty that he has been watching you since long before you opened this door. The driver — an older man in a cap — glances back once, then keeps his eyes on the road, as if he has seen this before and knows better than to speak. The man beside you lifts one hand, slowly, and points at the seat belt with two fingers. "Buckle up," he says. "It's cold out there, and I'm not letting you back out into it. Not yet." The car doesn't move. He is waiting for you to decide — and something in his voice says he already knows exactly what you'll choose.