The first time Luca Rossi saw another man touch Olivia Parker’s hand in that Manhattan restaurant, he didn’t see a smile.

He saw a threat.

On a Thursday night in downtown New York City, the place buzzed with low jazz and clinking glasses, one of those upscale spots where politicians and CEOs pretended to be normal people for an hour. The lighting was warm enough to feel intimate but dim enough that deals could be made without anyone really seeing the details.

Luca stepped through the glass doors like he owned the street outside and half the city beyond it. Two of his security men stayed at the entrance, suits sharp, eyes sharper, blending in with the other black-clad doormen along West 57th. Luca walked in alone, coat open over a dark suit, shoulders relaxed but posture controlled, scanning the room without looking like he was.

He wasn’t there for pleasure. A business associate had insisted on a quick meeting before midnight. Luca hated last-minute changes, but he’d agreed. Power in New York moved over quiet tables and slow dinners. This restaurant had seen enough of his nights to recognize him on sight.

Ten steps inside, his world shifted.

His heartbeat didn’t race, it changed tempo—slower, heavier. His jaw tightened, his gaze locking on a table by the window.

Olivia.

She sat there, back straight, hair loose around her shoulders instead of pinned up like she wore it at the office. The soft city glow from the windows fell across her face, warming her skin. She wore a simple dress in a shade of green he’d never seen on her before, the fabric catching the light every time she moved.

And she wasn’t alone.

A man sat across from her. Brown hair, casual blazer, the easy posture of someone who had never had to watch his back in a crowded room. He leaned in as he spoke. Olivia laughed—a real laugh, not the polite, measured sound she gave in front of clients.

Luca had never heard that laugh in his office.

The man reached across the table and brushed his fingers over Olivia’s hand. The touch was light, familiar. Possessive.

Luca’s lungs forgot what to do.

Who is this guy?

The question hit him with the force of a hit he hadn’t seen coming. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The restaurant noise faded to white, leaving only the sound of his pulse in his ears.

His assistant. On a date. In his restaurant. With some man who wasn’t him.

A waiter approached, smile bright, oblivious to the storm that had just cracked open over table fourteen.

“Good evening, sir. Table for one?”

Luca didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on Olivia, on the curve of her mouth, on the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear like she was trying to look her best for this stranger.

The waiter followed his gaze, then lowered his voice. “Oh, I see. She arrived earlier with—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Luca said, almost lazily.

The words were soft. The warning under them was not.

The waiter straightened as if someone had yanked his spine. “Of course, sir. Would you like a table?”

“Something with a clear view,” Luca answered.

He heard himself say it and didn’t even pretend it wasn’t the truth.

The waiter led him to a table two spots away, slightly behind Olivia, angled just enough that he could see both their faces. Luca sat down, but he didn’t pick up the menu. Food was the last thing on his mind.

He watched.

He watched the stranger’s elbows on the table like he owned the space between them. He watched Olivia lean in, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed in a way they never were when she sat outside his office on the top floor of his Midtown building.

She looked… softer here. Like New York itself had exhaled and finally let her breathe.

“You’re early,” Eric murmured as he slid into the chair across from him. Eric had worked for him for years, long enough to tell the difference between Luca’s calm and his silence.

“Our contact is running behind,” Eric said. “Traffic on the FDR. Sit.”

Luca didn’t look at him. He stayed locked on the couple by the window.

“Tell me what you see,” Luca said.

Eric followed his gaze. Recognition flickered through his eyes, followed by a short, almost amused exhale. “Ah,” he said. “Your assistant is here.”

“With him,” Luca said, voice flat.

“Looks like a date,” Eric admitted.

Luca’s jaw flexed once.

Olivia’s hair fell over one shoulder in an easy wave. She wore small earrings he’d never seen at work. The dress followed the line of her body in a way that made it impossible not to notice she was a woman first and his assistant second.

She smiled at something the man said. It wasn’t the polite, half-professional smile she wore in boardrooms. It was open, unguarded. Beautiful.

Luca’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.

When the man stood, maybe for the restroom or a call, Luca’s body moved before his mind caught up. His chair slid back with quiet precision.

“Boss,” Eric warned under his breath.

Luca was already walking.

Olivia had her eyes on the menu when she felt it. A change in the air, a weight behind her. She glanced up.

And nearly dropped the glass of water in her hand.

“Luca,” she whispered.

His name left her like it didn’t belong in this place.

She wasn’t supposed to see him here. This restaurant was his world, his territory, the place where whispers became contracts. She knew that. That’s why she’d tried not to think about it when Ethan suggested it.

Yet here he was.

He stopped by the side of her table. No smile. No greeting. Just that unreadable, controlled face and eyes full of something too sharp to be neutral.

“Enjoying your night, Olivia?” he asked.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” he replied calmly. “But I don’t need to. I can see exactly what this is.”

Her cheeks burned. “It’s just dinner.”

“Dinner,” he repeated, as if the word offended him. “With who?”

Her heart stuttered. “A friend.”

His eyes darkened. “A friend who holds your hand across the table?”

Color climbed up her neck. “That’s none of your business.”

He stepped closer, casting a shadow over her place setting. “Everything you do is my business.”

“No,” she said, standing. Her chair scraped softly against the polished floor. “My work is your business. My life is mine.”

For a man used to having his orders followed before they were fully spoken, the pushback hit like a slap he hadn’t expected. Something dangerous flickered in his gaze.

Before he could answer, the man returned, slowing when he saw Luca standing there.

“Hey,” he said, glancing between them. “You must be the boss. Olivia told me you’re strict but fair.” He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Luca looked at the hand but didn’t take it.

The man let his arm drop, laughing awkwardly. “Right. Fair enough.”

“Luca, this is—” Olivia tried.

“I don’t care who he is,” Luca said, voice soft. Too soft.

The kind of soft people in New York learned to fear.

“This dinner is over.”

“No, it’s not,” Olivia shot back, chest tight.

The man stepped slightly between them, not aggressively, just enough to make his point. “Look,” he said, palms up. “I don’t want trouble.”

“Then leave,” Luca replied, lowering his voice even more.

“Luca,” Olivia snapped.

He froze.

She had never raised her voice to him. Not once. Not in nearly two years of late nights and impossible deadlines.

Her eyes were bright, furious, a little scared. For one suspended second, he saw the girl who left her small New Jersey town to move to New York with too many dreams and not enough money, and the woman who now stood in front of him refusing to be moved like she was just another one of his employees.

“You don’t get to control this,” she said, voice trembling for all the wrong reasons. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

She brushed past him, touching the man’s arm. “Sit, Ethan,” she said quietly. “We’re fine.”

Luca stood there, stunned, watching her reclaim a night he’d already decided to ruin.

Inside his chest, something ugly twisted—too big to be simple anger, too hot to be jealousy alone. Fear slid through it like a blade: fear of losing something he hadn’t even let himself admit he wanted.

He didn’t cause a scene.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He turned away, walked back to his table, and sat down as if he’d just finished a normal conversation. When the waiter came again, Luca didn’t remember what he ordered.

Outside, the New York air hit him cold and wet, smelling of rain and taxis. Eric followed, already on his phone.

“The meeting?” Eric asked.

“Canceled,” Luca said, opening the car door.

Eric blinked. “Boss—”

“Canceled.” Luca slid into the back seat.

He stared straight ahead, but his mind stayed stuck at that table, replaying the way Olivia had smiled at another man, the way her fingers looked in someone else’s grip.

“Find out who he is,” Luca said quietly.

Eric glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “The guy from the restaurant?”

“Yes. His name, his job, his family. Everything.”

Eric didn’t nod as much as he obeyed. The car pulled away, merging into the current of Manhattan traffic.

Luca’s reflection in the tinted glass looked calm.

Inside, he repeated one question over and over, each time with a little more disbelief.

Who is this guy, Olivia?

The next morning, New York looked deceptively normal.

People rushed along Lexington Avenue with coffee cups and briefcases, horns blared, steam rose from subway grates. On the top floor of Rossi Holdings, however, the air felt heavier.

Olivia stood on the sidewalk for a full minute before going in.

Her reflection in the lobby glass showed tired eyes and a tight mouth. She adjusted the strap of her bag and told herself it had just been dinner. Just one night. Just bad timing.

He is my boss, she reminded herself. He has no right to be mad.

But he had looked mad.

Not just mad. Hurt. That was the part she couldn’t unpack.

“Morning, Olivia,” the security guard at the front desk called. “Early as always.”

“Can’t shake old habits,” she said with a weak smile.

The elevator doors closed around her. She watched her reflection in the mirrored walls as she rose toward his floor. Every floor that passed made her stomach knot tighter.

The doors slid open onto the executive level. The assistants’ area outside Luca’s office gleamed—desks neat, screens glowing, coffee machine humming. Her own desk sat where it always did, directly opposite his door like a checkpoint.

She set down her bag, woke her computer, and glanced at the door.

Closed.

No movement. No familiar sound of his low voice on a call.

He usually beat her to work. Today, the clock ticked ten minutes past her arrival, then fifteen. She answered emails, forwarded documents, pretended to read three lines she never processed, and checked his door again.

Finally, the elevator chimed.

She knew his footsteps better than she liked to admit. Steady. Purposeful. Heavy without being loud.

Luca walked down the hall in a dark suit, no tie, shirt open just enough at the collar to break the perfection. His hair was in place, his face unreadable. Eric trailed behind him, tablet in hand.

Olivia stood automatically. “Good morning, Mr. Rossi,” she said.

He looked straight ahead as he passed. The faint scent of his cologne followed, warm and expensive.

He didn’t answer.

The door closed behind him with a sound that felt much louder than it was.

Eric paused at her desk for half a second. His look said more than his words ever would—sympathy mixed with a healthy desire to stay far away from whatever emotional minefield was about to explode.

He disappeared into the office.

Olivia exhaled slowly. Her hand shook. She hid it in her lap and whispered to herself, “So that’s how we’re doing this.”

He was going to pretend nothing had happened.

She tried to lose herself in work. Calls, calendar requests, contract drafts. But every vibration of the intercom made her jump.

Eventually, it buzzed.

“Olivia,” his voice came through, flat. “My office. Now.”

Her pulse leapt.

She smoothed the front of her blouse, grabbed her notebook, and knocked twice before entering.

Luca stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, New York spread out beyond him in a haze of steel and glass. Eric sat in a chair, a thin folder balanced on his knee.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, proud her voice only shook a little.

Luca let silence fill the room first. He was a man who knew how to weaponize quiet.

“Sit,” he said finally.

She sat, spine straight, hands folded over her notebook like she needed the prop.

“Tell me about last night,” he said.

Her stomach twisted. “Last night was my day off.”

He arched a brow. “Do I look confused about the calendar?”

“No,” she murmured.

“Then I’ll say it again,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, every inch the controlled executive. “Tell me about last night.”

“It was dinner,” she said. “That’s all.”

“With who?”

She clenched her jaw. “A friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated, eyes hardening. “Do all your friends hold your hand across the table?”

Heat hit her face. “You were watching me?”

“I watch everything,” he said. “It’s my job to know what happens around me. Especially when it involves people who work for me.”

People who work for me.

The words hit a nerve she hadn’t known was exposed. So that was all she was? After everything? After late nights and near-arguments and the way he’d once placed his hand on her back to guide her through a crowd as if the whole city might swallow her?

“So now my private life is part of your job description?” she asked.

His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Private life?” he repeated. “You work on my floor, with my schedule, under my security. You leave with my drivers. There is no fully private life when you stand this close to me.”

“I didn’t sign anything that says I can’t eat dinner in public,” she shot back. “I didn’t break any rules.”

“You broke my trust,” he said.

The words came fast, like they’d been waiting behind his teeth.

Olivia stared at him. “What?”

“You went out with a man I don’t know,” he continued, leaning forward. “In a place I use for meetings. You exposed yourself. You exposed me.”

“No one even knows I work for you,” she argued. “I don’t walk around with a sign that says ‘Rossi Holdings’ across my forehead.”

“You think people in this city can’t connect dots?” Luca snapped. “You arrive here every morning with my security. Your name is on the executive clearance list. You’re seen beside me, behind me. That restaurant is full of people who read those dots for a living.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. She hadn’t thought of it like that. Or maybe she had and ignored the danger because for once she’d wanted to feel normal. Just a woman on a date in Manhattan, not an assistant orbiting a man who scared half the city.

“I was careful,” she said quietly.

“I wasn’t talking about careful,” he replied. “I was talking about you trying to live your life with him.”

“There it is,” she said, swallowing hard. “You’re not worried about my safety. You’re jealous.”

The word hung between them like a drawn gun neither wanted to claim.

Eric shifted in his chair, suddenly fascinated by the folder in his hands.

Luca’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t deny it. Not clearly. He stood instead, the movement smooth but sharp, and walked around the desk until he was beside her.

“Stand up,” he said.

There was something in his tone that made defiance feel childish. She stood.

He came close—close enough that she had to tilt her head back to see his face. Close enough that she could smell his cologne and something uniquely him underneath it.

“I am responsible for you,” he said quietly. “For your safety. For what happens to you. That is not jealousy.”

“That is control,” she countered, a breath of a laugh escaping. “At least you admit it.”

“You going out with strangers makes you vulnerable,” he said, ignoring her comment. “Vulnerable makes you a weak point. And I do not accept weak points.”

“He is not a stranger,” she said. “He’s my cousin’s friend.”

“Name.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Why do you need his name?”

“Name, Olivia.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “This is going too far.”

“Too far,” he repeated, stepping closer. “You think I’ll sit and do nothing while you let some man I don’t know touch you in public?”

“You’re my boss, Luca,” she said. “Not my boyfriend.”

Something flickered across his face. Pain. Anger. Realization.

“Exactly,” he said, voice suddenly colder. “Remember that.”

The sentence hit harder than any raised voice could.

“If you don’t like my conditions,” he added, moving away, “you’re free to leave.”

The words sliced through the room.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked.

He hesitated. Just a fraction of a second, but she saw it—the war inside him between what he wanted and what he believed he was allowed to want.

“No,” he said finally, the word clipped. “I want you to think. That’s all.”

She stepped back, her anger no longer loud, just wounded. “I do think,” she said softly. “All the time. And I think you have no idea how you sound right now.”

He turned away, jaw tight, hands on his hips like he didn’t trust them not to reach for her again.

“You can go,” he said.

She waited a beat, hoping for something—an apology, an explanation, anything that sounded like the man who had once stood too close behind her chair at midnight and said, “Go home, Olivia. You’ve done enough.”

He said nothing.

She left, closing the door gently behind her.

The click still sounded like a slammed door.

Minutes later, Eric stepped back into the office. Luca sat behind his desk, staring at the wood where her hand had been.

“You want me to run the guy again?” Eric asked. “See if anything else comes up?”

“Find out everything about the man from last night,” Luca said, eyes still on that spot. “Name. Job. Family. Everything.”

“Already on it,” Eric replied.

Luca didn’t move. He heard Olivia’s words echo again and again.

You’re my boss. Not my boyfriend.

He knew exactly what he was.

He signed her paychecks. He controlled her schedule. He decided which nights she stayed late and which weekends she could keep.

He had no right to be furious that she’d given her laugh to someone else for a few hours.

But the picture wouldn’t leave his mind: her hand on that table, fingers brushing another man’s.

By Friday, Olivia was exhausted from replaying the same argument in her head.

Luca had been… different since then. Not shouting, not cruel. Just distant. Polite when necessary, professional to a fault, never lingering in the doorway of her cubicle with some pointless question that wasn’t really about work.

He acted like nothing had changed.

Everything had.

Her cousin texted in the afternoon. He’s free tonight. You promised you’d think about it. Second dinner?

She stared at the message. A part of her wanted to say no, go home, and crawl under a blanket until Monday. Another part, the stubborn one that hated the idea of anyone thinking they could dictate her life, lifted her chin.

Luca doesn’t own you, she told herself.

Fine, she sent back. Dinner. One hour.

At the same time, on the other side of the glass wall, Luca was reading a report on the man from the restaurant.

“Ethan Brooks,” Eric said. “Thirty-four. Architect. Works with a mid-size firm in Brooklyn. No arrests. Volunteers at a community center. Pays his taxes. Takes care of his mom. Honestly, he’s boring.”

“Too boring,” Luca muttered, tapping the file with one finger. “That means he’s normal.”

Eric gave him a look. “That’s usually a good thing.”

“Do I look like I want ‘normal’ anywhere near her?” Luca asked.

Eric smartly didn’t answer.

That night, Olivia stood in front of her bedroom mirror, turning slowly.

Soft green top. Black pants. Simple heels. Less dressy than the last time. Less date, more… experiment.

“It’s just dinner,” she told her reflection. “It’s not serious.”

Her phone buzzed.

Be nice, her cousin wrote. He likes you.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Great,” she muttered. “The one person I don’t want likes me.”

Ethan smiled when she arrived at the restaurant. Not the same one as last time—she’d made sure of that. Different place, different neighborhood, lower stakes.

“Liv,” he said, standing to hug her. “Glad you came.”

He used that nickname again. She managed a polite smile. “Hi, Ethan.”

He was kind. Easy to talk to. He told good stories, laughed at her jokes, listened when she talked. On paper, he was exactly the kind of man a woman should want—stable, decent, safe.

The problem was sitting in a black SUV half a block away, watching the entrance.

Luca had told himself he wasn’t going.

He’d told himself checking the restaurant’s security feed once was enough. He’d told himself he trusted his background check.

Then he’d found himself in the passenger seat, engine off, eyes locked on the door, waiting.

When Olivia walked in, something inside him reacted like a trigger had been pulled. She smiled nervously, pushed her hair behind her ear, and followed the host to the table. Ethan stood, pulled out her chair. Luca’s fingers curled on his knee.

“She looks happy,” Eric said carefully from the driver’s seat.

“Drive around the block,” Luca said.

“Boss—”

“Drive,” he repeated.

They circled once. Twice. By the third time, Luca had had enough.

“I’m getting out,” he said, hand on the door.

“No, you’re not,” Eric replied immediately. “Absolutely not. You show up in there again and she’ll never forgive you.”

“I’m not going in,” Luca said. “I’m walking.”

“That’s the same thing,” Eric argued.

Luca stepped out anyway.

Inside, Olivia was stirring her drink when she felt it—the prickle on the back of her neck that came when she knew she was being watched.

She turned her head.

Luca walked through the restaurant as if he belonged there, suit immaculate, collar open, sleeves rolled enough to show his wrists. He wasn’t rushing, but he wasn’t strolling either. There was purpose in every step.

Ethan followed her gaze. “Is that your boss?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Should I say hi?” he asked.

“No,” she said too fast.

He blinked. She shook her head. “Please. Just… don’t engage.”

It was too late.

Luca stopped at their table. He didn’t look at Olivia first. He looked at Ethan, eyes cool and assessing.

“Good evening,” Luca said.

“Mr. Rossi,” Ethan replied, nervous but not cowed. “Olivia told me you’re—”

“No, she didn’t,” Luca cut in smoothly. “She doesn’t talk about me.”

Olivia’s eyebrow shot up. That was a lie and they both knew it.

“I assume,” Luca continued, “this is the second dinner.”

“You assume correctly,” she shot back. “Which is none of your—”

“It is my business,” he said, still looking at Ethan. “She works for me.”

“I work for someone too, man,” Ethan said carefully. “But I don’t follow her to restaurants.”

Olivia wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. Luca’s expression didn’t change.

“I didn’t follow anyone,” Luca said.

“You here for dinner?” Ethan asked.

“Yes.”

“Alone,” Ethan added.

“In the same place,” Olivia muttered under her breath.

“At the same time,” Ethan finished.

“Please stop talking,” Olivia whispered.

Ethan nodded. “Right. I’ll shut up now.”

Luca finally looked at her.

The anger she expected wasn’t there. What she found instead hurt more—raw, quiet, almost vulnerable.

“Can we talk outside?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” she said. “We’re in the middle of—”

“I won’t ask twice.” His tone wasn’t threatening. It was something worse.

Desperate.

She saw it then, behind the control. Behind the title and the city and the layers of armor he wore as naturally as his suit.

“Five minutes,” she told Ethan, standing.

“Take your time,” Ethan said gently.

Outside, the air was cool against her bare arms. Olivia crossed them, not from the cold, but because she needed something between them besides history and feelings she hadn’t agreed to have.

“What are you doing?” Luca asked.

“Having dinner,” she answered. “It’s not a crime.”

“Don’t play with me,” he said softly. “You are the one playing games.”

“You’ve ignored me for days,” she snapped. “You pushed me away. You shut me out. And now you show up here like this?”

“I’m trying to understand why you need him,” Luca said.

“He’s kind,” she said. “He’s normal. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m failing every time I breathe wrong at work.”

Luca flinched.

“I don’t want to control your life,” he said quietly.

“Then stop trying,” she replied. “You are controlling my choices because you don’t like how they make you feel.”

“How they make me feel,” he repeated.

“Jealous?” she said.

He inhaled.

For the first time, he didn’t deny it.

“You think this is about jealousy?” he asked slowly.

“What else is it about?” she shot back.

His jaw worked. When he spoke again, his voice dropped.

“It’s fear, Olivia.”

She blinked. “Fear of what?”

He held her eyes for a long moment, fighting himself. “You,” he said finally.

She stared at him. “Me?”

“You change things,” he said. “In my head. In my routine. In my control. I spent my whole life building something I can predict. Then you walk in with your color-coded calendar and your stubborn mouth and your ridiculous loyalty, and suddenly I can’t predict anything.”

The restaurant door opened behind them.

“Olivia?” Ethan called.

She turned. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

He didn’t come closer. He stopped a respectful distance away, hands in his pockets.

“Your cousin told me the truth,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I think you should know.”

“Know what?” she asked.

“I’m not actually interested in dating you,” he said, wincing. “Your cousin begged me to take you out. Said you needed a reason to stop staying late at the office.”

Olivia stared. “What?”

“I thought you knew,” he said. “I wasn’t flirting, Liv. I was trying to get you to talk about something other than work. The guy you like?” He glanced at Luca. “It’s obviously not me.”

“Ethan,” she hissed.

He raised his hands. “Hey, I’m just clearing the air. For the record, I like someone else. I’m not competition.” He met Luca’s eyes. “You really don’t have to worry about me.”

Luca didn’t move.

“Good luck, Liv,” Ethan added softly. “Try not to overthink it.”

He walked away, disappearing around the corner.

Silence slipped in behind him.

Olivia looked down at the sidewalk. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I thought he liked me.”

“And you thought you had to move on,” Luca said, voice strangely gentle. “From whoever it really is.”

She nodded once.

“You were trying to forget someone,” he added.

She nodded again.

“Was it me?” he asked, almost too quiet to hear.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

He saw it in her eyes.

Something inside him finally broke—not in a violent way, but like a wall cracking under the weight of its own lies.

“Don’t do that again,” he said softly.

“Do what?” she whispered.

“Try to forget me,” he said.

Her breath caught.

He held her gaze for one more second, then turned, walked to his car, and left her standing under the restaurant lights with her heart pounding and her world suddenly tilted off its axis.

Weeks after that night, nothing between them looked different from the outside.

Inside, everything was.

They moved around each other with a new awareness, like the Manhattan skyline after dark—familiar shapes lit from within.

Luca left a black box on her desk one morning before she arrived. Inside, she found a new security badge and a metal key attached to a small tag with her address written in his sharp handwriting.

For your door. Use it. – L

He’d offered to change her locks after she mentioned walking home alone late one night. She’d refused. Apparently, he’d decided refusal was a temporary state.

“That’s not romantic, you know,” she told him later, leaning against his office door. “Sending me a key to my own apartment.”

“I didn’t send it to be romantic,” he said. “I sent it so you don’t end up in the news.”

“Always so poetic,” she murmured.

“I’m not interested in poetry,” he replied. “I’m interested in you being alive.”

His words weren’t sweet.

They didn’t need to be.

There were small shifts. He brought her coffee sometimes. Not every day, just often enough that her heart jumped when she saw two cups in his hand. He remembered how she took it—no sugar, extra milk.

He started asking if she’d eaten, then making sure she did. He caught her working through lunch one day, cheeks faintly pale from low blood sugar, and silently dropped a container of pasta on her desk.

“Eat,” he said.

“You didn’t even ask if I wanted—”

“You always say you’re not hungry and then drink three coffees,” he replied. “Eat.”

She ate.

They stayed late one rainy night, just the two of them on the floor, the rest of New York hidden behind streaked glass. He ordered takeout. Not expensive cuisine, just steaming boxes from a small Italian place he liked.

“No wine?” she teased.

“You’re on the clock,” he said. “And I don’t drink when I might have to make decisions.”

They ate side by side at the small conference table, shoulders occasionally brushing. He told her about a ridiculous argument between two businessmen who had thrown a deal because they couldn’t agree on what brand of whiskey to serve at a launch party. She told him her cousin kept asking if he had any brothers.

“She thinks you’re mysterious,” Olivia said.

He lifted a brow. “Is that her word or yours?”

“She said it first,” Olivia replied. “I just agreed.”

“And what is your word?” he asked.

She thought about it, then shrugged. “Complicated.”

He chewed, then nodded once. “That’s fair.”

Later, reaching for the same file at the same time, their fingers brushed. It was a small touch.

It didn’t feel small.

Her breath stalled. His hand stilled over hers, warm and steady. They both looked up at once.

“Luca,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he answered.

“What are we doing?”

“Working,” he said, though his thumb was already moving, tracing the side of her hand.

“That’s not what it feels like,” she replied.

He was close enough that she could see the faint scar near his jaw, the different shades of brown in his eyes. The city outside faded to a blur of light.

“Do you want me to move away?” he asked quietly.

She could have lied. Should have, maybe.

“No,” she said.

His fingers turned, now holding her hand fully. He stepped closer until her hip brushed the edge of the table and his chest almost touched her shoulder.

“If I cross this line,” he murmured, “I won’t pretend anymore.”

“Maybe I’m tired of pretending,” she whispered.

The knock on the door exploded the moment.

They jumped apart. Eric walked in with a folder, took one look at their faces, and wisely decided to pretend he’d seen nothing.

“Numbers you asked for,” he said, dropping the file. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

When he left, the silence was thick.

“Saved by spreadsheets,” Olivia muttered.

“He has the worst timing,” Luca said, raking a hand through his hair.

“Maybe it was good,” she replied, forcing a smile. “We work together. We should think before we… change everything.”

“Do you regret it?” he asked.

“We didn’t do anything,” she said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

She met his eyes and didn’t look away. “No,” she said. “I don’t regret almost doing something. I just think we should be careful.”

“Careful,” he repeated, some tension easing from his shoulders. “I can do careful.”

She raised a brow. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The line broke fully weeks later, in his office, with rain tapping against the glass and New York blinking outside like a whole other life they weren’t living.

He’d shut her out that morning.

Closed his blinds. Canceled her presence at his meetings. Sent Eric instead.

What she didn’t know was why.

The gala had changed things. Not just between them, but in the city. Photos had gone up overnight—New York blogs, gossip accounts, faceless people on the internet squinting at pixelated images of Luca Rossi dancing with an unknown woman in a dark dress.

Who is the girl with New York’s most dangerous gentleman?

Secret girlfriend or executive assistant?

RUMOR: Rossi finally has a weakness.

Eric had pulled the articles for him.

“If anyone wants to get to you, they go through her now,” he’d said. “She’s visible. Named or not, she’s visible.”

Luca stared at the screen too long.

He’d always had enemies. Rivals in boardrooms. Men who didn’t like how fast he’d climbed from some cramped Brooklyn apartment to the top of Manhattan’s food chain. Everyone knew you didn’t hit Luca directly.

You hit whatever he couldn’t afford to lose.

Now the internet had given them a suggestion.

He’d spent the next day trying to push her away again. To create distance. To protect her the only way he knew—by pretending she didn’t matter.

It didn’t work.

That evening, one of his men stopped Olivia on a side street near the office, just as a shadow slipped back into the dark when he saw the security jacket.

“Boss asked me to watch you,” the guard said.

“Tonight?” she asked.

“After the photos,” he said. “Just in case.”

She walked back into Rossi Holdings with her heart pounding for a new reason. He might shut her out, but he still assigned protection without telling her.

She stormed straight to his office and opened the door without knocking.

Luca looked up, tie loosened, jacket off, NYPD scanner humming low on one of his screens.

“Why didn’t you tell me someone might follow me?” she demanded.

He stood so fast his chair rolled back. “You were followed?”

“Almost,” she said. “Your guard scared him off.”

“Did he touch you?” Luca asked, voice sharp.

“No.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No.”

“But you were scared,” he said.

“I was surprised,” she corrected.

“You were scared,” he repeated softly. “I can hear it.”

She walked closer, anger shaking. “You didn’t tell me. You acted like nothing happened. You pushed me away. Again.”

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he said.

“You made it worse by lying,” she shot back. “You always do this. You decide for me. You shut me out and call it protection.”

His shoulders tensed. “You shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“Don’t make this about what I should or shouldn’t do,” she said. “This is about you.”

He stared at her, breathing uneven, the mask slipping a little.

“I saw the photos,” he admitted. “And the comments.”

“Comments?” she echoed.

“Calling you my distraction,” he said. “My soft point. My weakness. They weren’t wrong.”

Her anger softened around the edges, replaced with something else. “And what?” she asked. “You think if you stay cold enough, no one will notice you care?”

“In my world,” he said, voice low, “distractions get hurt. Weak points get exploited. People like you…” He stopped.

“People like me what?” she pressed.

“People like you get killed,” he finished quietly. “Not always literally. Sometimes just… enough to make a point.”

She swallowed hard. “You think I can’t decide what’s dangerous?” she whispered.

“I think you’re too good to understand how dangerous I am,” he said.

She stepped closer. “If you want me to leave, say it,” she told him. “Say the words. I’ll pack my desk tonight.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“If that’s what you really want, then say it,” she repeated.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. The silence between them grew so thick it hurt.

“Okay,” she said finally, throat burning. “I understand.”

She turned.

She got two steps before his hand closed around her wrist.

“Don’t,” he said.

She looked back slowly. His grip wasn’t tight. It was desperate.

“You don’t get to leave,” he whispered. “Not because of this. Not because of me.”

Her eyes stung. “Then stop pushing me away,” she said, voice breaking. “You can’t have it both ways, Luca. You don’t get to treat me like I’m nothing and still expect me to stay.”

He swallowed, eyes moving between hers and her mouth like he needed to look away and couldn’t.

“If I let myself feel everything,” he said hoarsely, “I might never let you go.”

Her heart stopped.

“Maybe I don’t want you to,” she answered.

His expression broke for a brief, unguarded second. Relief. Fear. Something like hope.

He loosened his hold and slid his hand down, fingers threading through hers instead. Just that—one hand holding another in a quiet office thirty floors above Manhattan.

She stepped into him, resting her forehead against his chest.

He froze.

Then, slowly, like he was afraid to break something sacred, he wrapped his arms around her. His hands trembled just a little where they settled on her back.

“Stay a little longer,” he whispered.

“I’m here,” she said.

For once, that was enough.

The kiss came later, on another rainy night, after another long day of pretending in front of everyone else and not pretending at all when the door finally closed behind them.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t corner her against the desk like in the movies people whispered about when they talked about men like him.

He stepped close and told her the truth instead.

“When I hold you,” he said, “I don’t want to let go. I’m afraid of how much I want this. I’m afraid you’ll regret it.”

“I won’t,” she said.

“Why?” he asked. “You know who I am.”

“Yes,” she replied. “And I know who you are when you’re not being who you think you have to be. I know the man who memorizes his staff’s coffee orders. Who sends keys to doors that don’t belong to him because he wants them safer. Who watches rain hit the glass and pretends he doesn’t wish I’d come in and say good night.”

He closed his eyes.

“I love control,” he admitted. “I love having all the information. All the angles. All the exits. And then you walked in and suddenly nothing about you fits into a neat file in my head.”

“Then stop trying to file me,” she whispered. “Just feel it.”

He lifted his hand, fingertips brushing her cheek like a question.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she said.

That was all he needed.

His mouth met hers, not with violence or greed, but with a careful hunger that melted into something deeper the second she kissed him back. The city and its noise disappeared. There was only his hands on her waist, her fingers in his hair, the slow slide of breath between them.

When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers again.

“I knew it,” he murmured.

“Knew what?” she asked, breathless.

“That it would feel like something I can’t walk away from,” he said.

He was right.

From then on, nothing between them was halfway.

He began to change his world quietly, piece by piece.

He cut ties with the loudest men first—those who thrived on chaos, who liked being feared more than being smart. He moved money into cleaner ventures. Sold shares in certain companies. Strengthened others. Donated more than he ever admitted to anyone but his accountant.

“I’m making it smaller,” he told her one night, eyes on the city. “Cleaner. I can’t erase everything. But I can choose a direction.”

“Because of me,” she said.

“Because of me,” he corrected. Then, softer, “And because of you. Because I want you to be able to stand next to me in the light without wondering who might be watching from the dark.”

Her chest ached. “I see what you’re doing,” she said, adjusting his tie. “I’m proud of you.”

No one had said those words to him in a long time.

He kissed her then, just once, like a thank you no one else deserved to hear.

The night he proposed, New York hummed with summer heat. The sky over Manhattan was a dark velvet curtain pierced with skyscraper lights.

He picked her up from her apartment, dressed in the kind of suit that made restaurant hosts straighten their posture on instinct.

“You said it was just dinner,” she reminded him as she slid into the car.

“It is,” he said. “I don’t do ‘just’ anything with you.”

She realized where they were going only when the car turned onto the block.

The same restaurant where he’d first watched her across the room. The same one where he’d asked, with anger and confusion burning through him, Who is this guy?

Her heart pounded.

“Luca,” she said quietly.

“Trust me,” he replied, offering his hand.

The restaurant was empty.

No other tables, no couples, no businessmen pretending to be casual. Just candles, low music, and New York outside the window.

“You rented the whole place,” she said.

“Yes.”

“That’s a lot,” she murmured.

“For you, it’s appropriate,” he replied simply.

They sat at the same table where she’d once tried to convince herself she could want someone safe and simple.

“Do you remember that night?” she asked.

“I remember every second,” he said.

“Me too.”

He poured wine, then rested his hand over hers on the table.

“I was angry,” he admitted. “Jealous. Lost. I didn’t understand why it bothered me so much to see you there with him. I kept asking myself, ‘Who is this guy? Why is she giving him what she never gives me?’”

“And now?” she asked softly.

“Now,” he said, holding her gaze, “I don’t care who anyone else is. I only care who I am to you.”

Her eyes burned.

“And who do you want to be?” she whispered.

He stood, moved around the table, and held out his hand for her. When she stood, he took both of her hands in his.

“I can’t promise you a quiet life,” he said. “Not with me. I can’t promise you that the past won’t knock on our door sometimes. But I can promise I will meet every knock with you behind me, not alone. I can promise to keep changing, to keep choosing the kind of man you can be proud to stand beside. I can promise that you will never have to wonder if you are second to my business, my pride, my fear.”

Her tears fell then, soft and unstoppable.

“I don’t need perfect,” she said. “I never did. I just needed honest.”

He took a breath.

“I’m being honest now,” he said. “I love you, Olivia.”

The words felt like a choice, not an accident.

“Took you long enough,” she whispered, smiling through her tears.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small dark box. Not flashy. Serious.

“This is not pressure,” he said. “It’s not an order. It’s a question.”

He opened it.

The ring inside was elegant, simple, nothing that screamed for attention. It looked like something chosen for the right reasons.

“You don’t have to answer tonight,” he said. “Or this year. I know what it means to ask you to tie your life to mine. I won’t take your choice away. But I want you to know what I see when I look at you.”

“What do you see?” she whispered.

“My future,” he said. “If you want it.”

She stared at the ring. At him. At the man who had gone from a cold name on a business card to the most complicated, infuriating, necessary part of her days.

“I don’t need time,” she said, voice trembling. “I’ve been answering this in my head for weeks.”

“Is that a yes?” he asked, and for the first time since she’d known him, he sounded nervous.

“Yes,” she said. “Luca, it’s a yes.”

His hands shook just a little as he slid the ring onto her finger. It fit like it had always belonged there.

He kissed her then, not like a man used to getting what he wanted, but like someone finally holding what he was afraid to hope for.

Later, when the world saw them together, people whispered in Manhattan bars and online comment sections.

Some said she’d changed him.

Others said he’d finally found someone worth changing for.

Neither of them cared.

On a quiet Sunday in his New York penthouse, Olivia stood in his kitchen wearing one of his shirts, making coffee while he watched her from the doorway.

“You’re staring,” she said without turning.

“I’m allowed,” he replied. “You said yes.”

She smiled, handing him a mug. “Do you regret it?” she asked. “Any of it?”

He stepped closer, tilting her chin up with two fingers.

“Regret asking you to spend the rest of your life arguing with me about my security protocols?” he said. “Never.”

She laughed, soft and bright, the same laugh he’d once heard across a crowded restaurant and mistaken for something that didn’t belong to him.

Now it did.

He kissed her and held her against his chest, feeling her relax fully in his arms. For a man who had spent his life gripping control like a lifeline, the realization came slowly and then all at once.

He hadn’t lost control.

He’d finally chosen the right thing to hold on to.

And for the rest of their lives, whenever anyone in New York looked at Olivia and wondered, Who is this guy at her side?

The answer would be easy.

He was the man who once walked into a Manhattan restaurant, saw another man touch her hand, and felt his entire world realign.

He was her former mafia boss, her impossible choice, her safest danger.

And more than that, he was her partner, her home, her always—as much hers as she was his.