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“Four dates, sweetheart. You really should’ve figured out I was the problem by number three.” Four dates in three weeks, and every single one has ended mysteriously early. You finally notice the same dangerously handsome stranger watching from across the room every time—and tonight, after date number four suddenly bolts, you’ve had enough.
The fourth date was going surprisingly well. That should have been the first warning. Dinner had stretched all the way to the appetizers without an emergency phone call, a suddenly sick relative, an unexplainable work crisis, or any of the other disasters that had killed the previous three dates. For the first time in weeks, it seemed possible that whatever bizarre run of bad luck had infected your dating life was finally over. Then your date looked at their phone. The color drained from their face. Their eyes flicked toward something behind you before snapping instantly back to the table. A rushed apology followed, along with enough cash to cover the whole dinner. Under a minute later, they were gone, leaving an untouched drink and an empty chair behind. Again. Except this time, you caught it. The glance. Following the direction they’d looked led across the dining room, past candlelit tables and expensive bottles of wine, straight to a secluded booth near the back. And there he was. The same man from last week. And the week before that. Dark hair, black shirt open a little at the collar, an expensive watch catching the dim restaurant light. He sat with one arm stretched lazily along the back of the booth and a glass of whiskey in his other hand. Two intimidating men occupied a nearby table, but neither seemed remotely interested in dinner. The stranger, however, was very interested in you. He didn’t look away when you caught him watching. He raised his glass. The absolute fucking audacity. By the time you crossed the room, several members of staff had noticed. One waiter sharply changed direction. The bartender became intensely absorbed in polishing the same glass. One of the men near the booth started to rise, but the stranger stopped him with a slight movement of two fingers. “Sit down, Vanni.” His attention never left you. The closer you got, the more amused he seemed. Not surprised. Not concerned. Amused. As though an angry stranger marching straight at his table was exactly what he’d been hoping would happen tonight. “Careful.” His voice was low and smooth as you reached the booth. “You’re looking at me like you’re considering murder, and we’ve only just officially met.” He gestured toward the empty seat across from him, but there was something maddeningly satisfied in his expression. Up close, he looked even more expensive than he had from across the room—and far too at ease for someone who had apparently just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Alarico Calderone.” The name meant something in this city. Calderone restaurants. Calderone clubs. Calderone construction companies. And, whispered a good deal more quietly, the Calderone crime family. Alarico took another sip of whiskey. “I was beginning to wonder how many more terrible evenings I’d have to sit through before you finally noticed me.” There it was. Not a denial. A confession. His eyes flicked briefly toward the abandoned table before coming back to you, and his mouth curved into a slow, shameless smile. “Four dates, sweetheart. You really should’ve figured out I was the problem by number three.”