Chapter 4 - The Dinner Invitation
Three days after Alessio promised to handle Marcus Vance, the routine of the Romano estate was interrupted by a formal summons that threw Fiona into a mild panic.
At 5:00 PM, a maid delivered a neatly folded note written on heavy cream stationery. Join me in the formal dining room at 7:00 PM. Wear something nice.
Fiona stood in her third-floor bedroom, staring at the note in disbelief. A dinner invitation? Not a debriefing, not a warning, but a dinner invitation with the syndicate boss. She rummaged through her modest suitcase, pulling out the only decent thing she owned: a simple, elegant black midi dress she had bought for her nursing graduation years ago. It hugged her curves subtly, modest yet sophisticated.
When she walked down the grand double staircase at precisely 7:00 PM, Alessio was waiting at the bottom.
He wore a pristine charcoal tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, his tie perfectly knotted. For a fleeting second, as he looked up and watched her descend the steps, his breath caught. The tired, anxious nurse in the cheap trench coat was gone; in her place stood a striking woman with radiant brown eyes and an effortless grace that took his breath away.
"You look..." Alessio started, clearing his throat, abandoning the dangerous edge in his voice. "The dress suits you."
"Thank you, Mr. Romano. You clean up well yourself," Fiona replied, trying to keep her voice steady as she reached the bottom step.
He offered his arm. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow. The warmth of his muscles radiated through his sleeve, sending a strange, electric jolt up her arm.
The formal dining room was lit only by dozens of candles flickering in heavy crystal candelabras. A table for two was set in the center of the vast, cavernous room, laden with roasted duck, truffle risotto, and expensive wine.
They ate in relative silence for the first twenty minutes, the clink of silverware against porcelain echoing off the high ceilings. Fiona couldn't shake the surreal nature of the moment. Here she was, sharing a candlelight dinner with a man the FBI spent years trying to put behind bars, while upstairs, his infant son slept peacefully under heavy guard.
"You're quiet," Alessio finally said, setting down his wine glass. "Are you thinking about running back to Chicago?"
"I'm thinking about how surreal this is," Fiona admitted, looking across the candlelight at his intense face. "A month ago, I was sleeping on a friend's lumpy pull-out couch in a dodgy neighborhood, terrified of my shadow. Now I'm eating truffle risotto in a Lake Forest fortress with a mob boss."
Alessio let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Does it frighten you?"
"Should it?"
"Most people are terrified of me within five minutes of meeting me."
"Most people haven't held a dying infant while you pointed a loaded Glock at their temple," Fiona countered smoothly, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "After that, a candlelight dinner is practically a walk in the park."
Alessio smiled. It wasn't the cold, predatory smirk he gave his rivals or the grimace he wore when dealing with business. It was a genuine, soft smile that entirely transformed his face, making him look less like a syndicate kingpin and more like a normal thirty-two-year-old man. In that instant, Fiona felt her chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
"Elena would have liked you," Alessio said quietly, staring down into his wine glass.
Fiona froze. She knew from Dominic's stray comments that Elena was Alessio’s late wife, killed in the car bombing six months ago.
"She was stubborn," Alessio continued, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with old grief. "She never cowered when I raised my voice. She told me I took myself too seriously. When she died... I thought the world ended. I built this fortress to keep everyone out. I didn't expect a disgraced trauma nurse to waltz in and break down the gates."
Fiona reached across the table, her fingers gently brushing against his knuckles. The skin of his hand was rough, scarred by a life of violence, but under her touch, he didn't pull away.
"You didn't break down the gates, Alessio," she whispered, using his first name for the first time. "You opened them."
May you like
Before Alessio could answer, the heavy oak doors of the dining room flew open. Dominic rushed in, his face grim, clutching a bloody cell phone in his hand.
"Boss," Dominic said, panting slightly. "We have a situation. The Moretti syndicate just made a move. They hit our shipping docks on the river. And worse... they know about the baby."
