Chapter 1 - The Touch of Death
The air inside Luchia’s stopped moving altogether. For three seconds that stretched into an eternity, the only sound was the low sizzle of garlic from the far kitchen and the rain thrashing the glass storefront. Bella’s fingers remained wrapped around Aleandro Moretti’s wrist. His pulse against her palm was slow, rhythmic, and terrifyingly calm.
Vinnie Gallo’s hand went flat against the butt of the Glock holstered inside his tailored jacket. His jaw bunched, muscles tensing to snap the spine of the waitress who had committed suicide in high heels.
"Down, Vinnie," Aleandro said.
The command was soft, but Vinnie froze instantly, retreating half an inch into the booth. Aleandro’s dark eyes never left Bella’s face. He didn't pull away. Instead, he allowed the weight of her touch to linger, his dark brows drawing together in genuine, clinical fascination.
"You have five seconds to remove your hand, little bird," Aleandro murmured, his voice velvety gravel that stroked her nerves like sandpaper. "Before my associate removes it at the elbow."
Bella felt every survival instinct screaming in her blood. Her spine buzzed with icy panic. Yet behind her eyelids, all she saw was Marco’s pale face in room 412, hooked up to an IV line draining life from his thin veins. If she lost this job, if Luchia’s shut down because of a bloody mob execution in the center aisle, her brother’s treatment ended on Monday. Death was already coming for her family; Aleandro Moretti was just an impatient messenger.
She exhaled slowly, loosening her grip finger by finger, but she did not drop her gaze. "I apologize for touching you, Mr. Moretti. But Luchia’s is a family restaurant. If you smash that glass, the police come. The press comes. And you walk out through the back door while twenty people who make ten dollars an hour lose their livelihoods."
Salvatore Bianke scrambled backward like a crab, his shoes sliding on the hardwood, using the interruption to scramble toward the emergency exit. Vinnie looked to Aleandro for permission to pursue, but the Don lifted a single finger.
"Let him run," Aleandro commanded quietly, never breaking eye contact with Bella. "Rats only run in circles. He’ll be back on his knees by dawn."
He looked down at his own wrist, where faint red marks from Bella’s fingertips lingered on his pale olive skin. A slow, chilling smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"What is your name?" he asked.
May you like
"Isabella," she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her knees. "Just Bella."
"Bella," he repeated, tasting the syllables as if testing a vintage wine. He set the heavy crystal glass down onto the white linen without spilling a single drop. "You have very little sense, Bella. But you have remarkable hands. Bring me the check. And add two thousand dollars for your manager's shattered nerves."
