"I have a date tomorrow night." Gabriel Castellan went perfectly still.

The rain was slick on the cobblestones of Hanover Street when the black SUV pulled up to the curb fifty yards down from Osteria del Mare.

Inside the warm, amber-lit restaurant, Vera sat near the front window, clutching a glass of tap water. Across from her, Mark Sullivan was talking.

He had been talking for forty-five minutes.

He talked about his fantasy football league, his promotion track at the firm, his mother’s opinion on gluten, and how he preferred women who didn't wear too much makeup. He had ordered an expensive bottle of Barolo without asking her preference, then complained when the waiter didn't bring bread fast enough.

Vera smiled politely, nodding her head at the appropriate intervals, while her stomach twisted into a nervous knot.

She hated this. She hated the artificiality of it, the small talk, the feeling of being evaluated like a used sedan.

For four months, her life had been defined by absolute, terrifying silence. She had worked in a house where words were spoken like ammunition—sparingly, precisely, with lethal intent. Gabriel Castellan didn't make small talk. He didn't ask about the weather. When he looked at her, he looked through her, as if he were reading the secrets she had spent her whole life trying to hide.

Mark Sullivan was safe. He was normal. He was boring.

And right now, sitting across from him, Vera felt completely, utterly numb.

"So anyway," Mark said, taking a large gulp of the expensive wine, "I told my boss that if I don't get the senior associate title by Q3, I'm taking my talents across town. A man’s got to know his worth, right?"

"Right," Vera murmured, picking at her salad.

"What about you?" Mark asked, leaning back in his chair and surveying her faded dress with a patronizing smirk. "You said you do domestic management? That's a fancy word for cleaning houses, right? Must be tough work. Ever think about getting an administrative degree?"

Vera’s hand froze on her fork. A cold, sharp prickle of humiliation flushed through her chest.

Before she could speak, the glass door of the restaurant swung open.

The subtle background music seemed to die instantly. The ambient chatter of thirty diners withered away into an uneasy, suffocating quiet.

Two men stepped inside. Both were towering, broad-shouldered, wearing expensive dark coats over tailored suits. The older one stayed by the door, his hand resting casually inside his jacket, his cold eyes scanning the dining room like a predator evaluating a livestock pen.

The second man walked down the narrow center aisle.

Vera’s heart stopped.

Gabriel Castellan walked into the restaurant like he owned the building, the street outside, and the air everyone inside was breathing. His wet, dark hair was combed back from his sharp, ruthlessly handsome face. His gray eyes were pinned directly to table four.

Mark Sullivan looked up, frowning as the tall stranger approached their table. "Excuse me, buddy, can I help you?"

Gabriel ignored him completely. He stopped right beside Vera’s chair, the scent of expensive rain-drenched cedar and dark tobacco washing over her.

"Your dress is wet," Gabriel said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through her spine.

Vera stared at him, her mouth opening and closing without producing a sound. "Mr.... Mr. Castellan? What are you doing here?"

Mark stood up, trying to look imposing, though he reached only to Gabriel’s collarbone. "Hey! Who the hell are you? We're on a date here!"

Gabriel didn't even turn his head. He kept his eyes locked on Vera’s pale face.

"He's boring you," Gabriel stated flatly.

"Hey!" Mark barked, reaching out to grab Gabriel’s arm. "I said who the hell—"

Gabriel moved so fast it looked like a blur.

His left hand shot out, catching Mark by the throat, slamming him backward into his leather chair with enough force to rattle the wine glasses. Gabriel leaned down over the table, his face inches from Mark’s trembling nose, his grey eyes turning into liquid steel.

"If you touch me again," Gabriel whispered softly, "I will have Dante throw you into the harbor with forty pounds of rebar tied to your ankles. Do you understand me, Mark?"

Mark’s face went instantly pale. He nodded frantically, his eyes wide with absolute, primal terror.

Gabriel let go of his neck, pulled a stack of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket pocket, and tossed them casually onto Mark’s dinner plate.

"Dinner's on me," Gabriel said.