Chapter 6 - THE DINNER I AGREED TO ON MY TERMS
Vincent asked me to dinner the following Thursday.
I said yes.
Then I gave him conditions.
No private mansion.
No surprise guests.
No bodyguards sitting at our table.
No expensive gifts.
And absolutely no kissing without asking.
He listened.
Then said, "Understood."
I hesitated.
"That's it?"
"What else should I say?"
"I don't know. Tyler usually argued."
Vincent was quiet.
Then he said, "Emily, you don't need to negotiate your right to say no."
I sat on the edge of my bed after we hung up.
For a long time, I stared at the phone.
I wasn't used to being heard the first time.
We met at a small Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village.
It had wooden tables, red-checkered napkins, and a handwritten menu.
Vincent arrived wearing a navy sweater instead of a suit.
He looked almost ordinary.
Almost.
The hostess still recognized him immediately.
I ordered pasta.
He ordered the same.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Do you always copy women?"
"Only when they seem to know what they're doing."
I laughed.
He smiled.
And for the first twenty minutes, we talked about nothing dangerous.
Music.
Bad movies.
My mother's obsession with crossword puzzles.
His inability to cook anything more complicated than scrambled eggs.
Then I asked, "What were you like before all this?"
He looked at me.
"Before what?"
"The money. The reputation. The men who follow you around."
He considered the question.
"Poor."
I smiled.
"That wasn't what I meant."
"I know."
He looked down at his hands.
"My father worked at the docks. My mother cleaned offices. I grew up in an apartment where the heat stopped working every winter."
"Did you always want to be rich?"
"No."
"What did you want?"
He looked almost embarrassed.
"A bookstore."
I stared.
"A bookstore?"
He nodded.
"My mother loved reading. She used to take me to the public library every Saturday. I thought owning a bookstore would make her happy."
"What happened?"
"My father was killed when I was nineteen."
His expression hardened.
"After that, I stopped believing small dreams were enough to keep people safe."
I listened.
He continued.
"I made choices. Some were legal. Some weren't. Eventually, people became afraid of me."
"Did you like that?"
"For a long time."
"And now?"
He looked directly at me.
"Now I'm tired of it."
After dinner, we walked through Washington Square Park.
The night was cool.
Street musicians played beneath the arch.
For once, nobody seemed interested in us.
Vincent stopped near a bench.
"Emily."
I turned.
"Yes?"
"May I hold your hand?"
My breath caught.
Such a simple question.
So different from Tyler's habit of deciding what I wanted.
I nodded.
"Yes."
His hand was warm.
We walked slowly.
And for the first time since the restaurant humiliation, I felt something other than fear.
Hope.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
Then Vincent's phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
"What happened?"
I stopped walking.
He listened.
Then said, "Call the police. Don't touch anything."
He ended the call.
"Vincent?"
He looked at me.
"Someone broke into your apartment."
My blood turned cold.
"My mother?"
"She's safe. A neighbor called the police when she heard glass breaking. Your mother was visiting a friend."
I pressed a hand against my chest.
"What did they take?"
Vincent hesitated.
"Nothing valuable."
"Then what?"
He looked at me.
"Your nursing school application."
I stared.
"Why would anyone want that?"
May you like
He swallowed.
"Because someone is trying to learn exactly how much it would cost to make you desperate."
