"These are for you. They should fit." Rosa guessed sizes. If anything is off, tell me and I'll have it fixed. Her brow pulled.
"You bought me clothes?" He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. "Yeah." "You bought me clothes in the middle of the night?" He let out half a laugh.
You think Conti's taking you back to that diner in the same uniform you were wearing when the senator's people tried to corner you? "Come on." Her mouth parted. "I'm going back to work?" Luca's expression flickered.
"That depends on what work means after today." Before she could ask, Luca's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then at her. His voice dropped, losing the easy tone. "Eat something."
"He's waiting in the kitchen. Don't make him wait." Then he was gone. The door clicked shut and Lisa stood there for a second, heartbeat thudding in her throat. He's waiting in the kitchen.
Something about that hit her harder than expected. Not an office, not a meeting room, not he'll see you when he's free. He's in the kitchen. Waiting for you. She dressed quickly.
The new clothes were simple, fitted black leggings, soft gray sweater, fresh socks, nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed I belong to a man like him. Just comfortable, thoughtful, and yes, they fit perfectly. That detail unsettled her more than any gun or threat ever could. How do you know my size, Marco?
When she stepped into the hallway, she realized how private this place really was. It wasn't sterile like a hotel. It wasn't gaudy rich person taste either. It was controlled, minimal, nothing lying around that didn't need to be there. The kind of space designed by someone who didn't like being surprised.
Cameras in the corners, reinforced doors, locked cabinets. She noticed it all and understood one thing instantly. People don't get in here unless he wants them in here. Which meant he let me in. Her stomach fluttered.
The kitchen wasn't what she expected. She'd pictured cold stone counters and chrome everywhere. Instead, it felt warm. Dim lighting, heavy wood table, coffee already made, steam curling up from two mugs. Marco was leaning against the counter with his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie on the table.
He looked less like a rumor and more like a man this close. Stubble on his jaw, strong shoulders under a white dress shirt, a vein in his forearm that flexed when he moved. He wasn't posing. He wasn't trying. That was the problem.
Her breath stalled for half a second. He looked up. And when his eyes landed on her, his whole face changed. That was the second problem. She'd seen men look at her before, sure.
Quick scans, lazy grins, hands that felt entitled just because she brought ketchup to their table. This wasn't that. Marco didn't look at her like something to touch. He looked at her like something he already considered his. "Morning," he said quietly.
"It's still dark out," she managed. The corner of his mouth lifted. "Then it's not morning yet." Her eyes flicked to the mugs. "Is that for me?"
"Yes," he said. "Sit." She sat at the table because her body did what his voice told it to do before her brain could decide whether or not she liked that. "Eat." He said, sliding a plate toward her.
Toast, eggs, bacon. Real bacon, not whatever thin supermarket pack she sometimes bought on Sundays if it was on clearance. "I'm not hungry." She said automatically. He didn't blink. ""Eat anyway."" She picked up the fork. ""You always talk to people like that?"" ""No."" ""Just me?"" ""Yes."" Her stomach did something that should not have felt good.
She took a bite and her body betrayed her immediately. She had been hungry. She hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon. Marco watched her silently for a few seconds, not in a creepy way. More like he was checking.
"Are you actually okay or should I be hunting someone down right now?" Finally, he said it. ""They came after you because of me."" Lisa's fork paused in midair. He continued, voice even. "Bennett's people don't care about you. They care about optics.
His daughter humiliates a waitress, video goes online, his kid looks bad. He can't touch me without starting something he won't survive. So, he tried to get to me through you. That's why they were there." Her chest tightened. ""So, I got pulled into this because you stood up?"" "You got pulled into this."
He corrected, "because a spoiled little girl thinks service workers are beneath her. And her father taught her that money erases guilt." "I just interrupted the part where you were supposed to swallow it and say thank you." Her throat burned. He said it casually.
Like he'd been sitting in that dark corner booth for months watching people like Olivia Bennett spit on girls like her, and he'd finally had enough. Lisa looked down at her plate. ""Nobody has ever stopped something like that for me."" His brow lifted slightly. ""Nobody ever wiped your face before?" Her eyes snapped up. "Don't say it like that." "Like what?"
"Like it was nothing." His jaw flexed like he wanted to say 10 things and swallowed all of them. He leaned forward instead, forearms on the table, lowering his voice. "It wasn't nothing," he said. "That's the point."
Silence pressed in for a few seconds. Her face felt hot. She didn't know where to look. She tried to breathe around the weight in her chest. "Everyone's saying your name."
"I know." "They said you're dangerous." "I am." That directness should have scared her. It didn't.
Not the way it should have. She swallowed. "Dangerous to who?" A slow breath moved through his chest. Then he said it, steady and truthful.
"Not to you." Every muscle in her body went tight. Her instinct told her not to believe that. Men said things. Men promised things.
Men swore they'd never and then they did. But something in the way he'd walked into that diner at 2:00 in the morning, something in the way two grown men with fake badges had backed up the second his eyes cut toward them. That wasn't a lie. That was evidence. He wasn't asking her to trust him.
He was showing her why she should. Lisa pushed her plate away a little and exhaled. "What happens now?" Marco didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into a folder on the table and slid a stack of printed screenshots toward her.
"This." Lisa blinked. "What is that?" "Your face," he said. "Online."
Her stomach dropped. Her own image stared back at her from a dozen angles, all frozen mid-humiliation. Olivia laughing. Her friend filming. Lisa looking stunned, hurt, small.
Words overlaid on some of them. Waitress attacks senator's daughter. Violent diner worker. Goes after minor. "Are you serious?"
Lisa whispered. "I didn't touch her." "Nobody cares about the truth," Marco said calmly. "They care about who posts first." Her hands shook.
I didn't do anything wrong. "I know." Her throat tightened so hard it hurt. That's what did it. Not the protection, not the money, not the SUV, the clothes, the guarded building, the private elevator.