But another part, the lonely and exhausted part that had spent years taking care of itself, felt something far more dangerous.
Seen.
What followed was not romance.
Not at first.
It was a takeover with flowers.
He learned my schedule.
He sent a driver after late shifts.
He had groceries delivered when my fridge was empty, though I never told him it was.
He got my landlord to repair the building lock within forty-eight hours after hearing me complain about it once.
“How did he do that?” my friend Jenna asked over drinks one night.
I stirred my wine and lied. “Connections.”
Jenna snorted. “Claire, men with connections don’t send orchids and black cars. Men like that buy judges.”
I laughed it off.
Then I googled him when I got home.
Nicholas Moretti.
The headlines opened like a trapdoor.
Chicago nightclub investor.
Real estate developer.
Suspected ties to organized crime.
Son of the late Anthony Moretti.
Federal investigation ongoing.
I sat on the edge of my bed and read until sunrise.
Photographs.
Court speculation.
Rumors.
Acquittals.
Business holdings.
The quiet suggestion, tucked into enough articles to become its own kind of fact, that Nicholas Moretti had inherited more than money when his father died.
He had inherited a kingdom built in shadows.
I should have blocked his number.
Instead, when he texted at seven the next evening asking if I’d eaten dinner, I answered.
That became the shape of us.
He courted me with impossible intensity.
Private tables at impossible restaurants.
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