I Drunkenly Wrote 10 Rules For My Perfect Man In A Bar, Unaware The Mafia Kingpin Behind Me Was Memorizing Every Word

For the next four days, my workshop became an island of focused, rhythmic craftsmanship.

The 1888 Erard grand piano action mechanism was a masterpiece of nineteenth-century French engineering.

I spent twelve hours a day cleaning the tarnished nickel pins, replacing the worn felt bushings, and calibrating the repetition levers.

Every afternoon at five o'clock sharp, Nicholas’s Porsche pulled quietly up the gravel lane.

He didn't wear designer suits or surround himself with bodyguards.

He wore worn canvas work trousers, sturdy leather boots, and simple cotton Henley shirts with the sleeves rolled up.

He brought tools from his private restoration foundry in East Austin: specialized brass tap sets, vintage hide glue crystals, and hand-carved boxwood wedges.

And to my utter astonishment, Nicholas Valenti knew exactly how to use them.

"My grandfather started our business as an architectural salvage yard in the nineteen-fifties," Nicholas explained on Wednesday evening, his fingers steady as he helped me clamp a cracked soundboard bridge.

"Before he taught me how to read contracts, he taught me how to true an edge on a hand plane."

"He said a man who doesn't know how to build something with his own hands has no right to tear anything down."

I watched his long, strong fingers work the wooden clamp, fascinated by the contrast between his violent reputation and his surgical gentleness with the antique wood.

"Why pianos, Nicholas?" I asked, looking up from my tuning lever.

"You could hire twenty restoration teams from New York to finish this ballroom project."

Nicholas paused, his gray eyes catching the warm amber light of the setting sun.

"Because the Governor’s Mansion preservation committee wanted someone with pedigree," Nicholas replied softly.

"They wanted names from the country club registry."

"I told them that pedigree doesn't fix hundred-year-old rosewood."

"Skill does."

"And when I heard you sitting behind that wooden booth on Rainey Street, listing what you deserved from the world,"

"I realized I was listening to the only real thing left in this entire city."

My breath hitched in my throat as he stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could smell the scent of cedar, clean rain, and leather on his skin.

He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a smudge of dark graphite dust from my cheekbone.

His touch was warm, steady, and completely unhurried.

"Rule number nine, Mara," he whispered, his deep voice sending shivers of electricity down my spine.

"He never makes you feel ridiculous for wanting more out of life."

"You deserve the whole world, sweetheart."

"And I intend to make sure you get it."

Before I could answer, Grandma Clara’s voice called out from the back porch kitchen:

"Dinner's on the table, children! Nicholas made the roasted garlic chicken, and if you let it get cold, I'm eating both plates!"

Nicholas smiled—that rare, dazzling smile that made my entire heart feel light—and offered me his hand.