Salon Privé sits on the beachfront at the far end of Devil's Cove. It's the type of place with a strict dress code and a menu with no prices. I've passed its unassuming door plenty of times but have never had the need nor the budget to see what's on the other side.
I step inside and hover in the entryway, trying to gawp without looking like a spectator at the zoo.
It smells like lemon and old money boxed in by dark wood walls. The sconces lining them are too far apart, creating more shadows than they do light. The tables are spaced far apart too, draped in white linen and plated with the kind of silverware siblings fight over in their grandmother's will.
Jeez. I say a little prayer that I don't need to reach for my wallet when the check comes, because I doubt I could afford a glass of tap water in a place like this, let alone a full meal.
A polished brunette holding a tablet approaches. "Good evening, ma'am. Do you have a reservation?"
I smile up at her, tugging at my dress, saying another silent prayer that she won't notice my Chanel flap purse is a knock-off. "Um, yes. It's under the name David, for eight p.m."
The screen lights up her frown as she scrolls through a list. "And the last name?"
I pause. Well, crap, I've no idea. David and I have been texting back and forth over the last few days, and I thought I'd covered all the important questions. What he does for work—something to do with computers; what his favorite movie is—the third one in that boring franchise about the Fast and Furious cars; does he have an Instagram account I can stalk—no.
But I'd forgotten to ask his last name.
"Um." I sweep the restaurant, hoping to spot a friendly smile and a wave. But there's barely anyone here, aside from a handful of men scattered around in corner booths, and even in the low lighting, I can tell none of them are David.
Irritation pulses beneath my ribs. I can't believe he's late. I know I'm late too, but that's beside the point.
I glance toward the bar in a last-ditch effort to find him, but my eyes snag on another familiar figure instead.
I grow cold. Then clammy.
No. Surely not.
Gabriel's resting easy against the bar. Black jeans, black T-shirt covering the black hole where his heart should sit. He's got one boot casually hooked around the other, but when his gaze locks onto mine and sparks hot, I realize there's nothing casual about him at all.
A fever drifts through me.
This can't be happening. He can't be real.
"Um." This woman must think that's the only word I know. "Excuse me for a moment. I've just got to …"
Never mind, there's no time for pleasantries.
Gabriel lazily tracks my approach, his gaze peeling off silk and skin. I weave through tables, narrowly dodging a passing server. I'm barely looking where I'm going—too focused on getting to the bar and getting him out of it.
He turns around and rests his elbows on the bar as I slide up beside him, as though he weren't watching me at all.
Holding my glare in the reflection of the mirrored wall, he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. "Do you know why so many joints have mirrors behind the bars?"
What? "What are you doing here?"
He slowly raises his whiskey glass and takes a sip. "Go on, guess."
Panic laced with irritation fissures through my blood. Knowing he won't answer my question until I answer his, I bite back, "I don't know. So the barmaid can touch up her makeup probably."
He releases a dry breath of amusement. "No. It's a tradition that dates back to the Old West. Saloons would put them up so punters drinking at the bar could see if anyone was approaching them from behind."
Distracted, I throw a cautionary glance over my shoulder at the door. "Cool. Awesome fact. Can you leave, please?"
I'm practically begging, but he continues as though he hasn't heard me.
"Because if anyone were to approach them from behind, it'd usually mean they're about to catch a bullet to the back of the head."
My stomach turns to lead. His tone is sunny-day calm, but when he lifts his chin to look at me in the reflection again, the overhead light catches the slither of dark amusement in his eye.
I can't breathe. Can't think. My throat dries out, and now I can't talk either.
Swirling the liquor in his glass, he turns to face me, the movement slow and deliberate. His gaze is objective, yet it feels like a rough scrape as he takes in my outfit.
"Why do you always wear pink?"
I stare at him.
Oh, my God.
He's here because I'm here.
Guess I'll see you there. It wasn't an empty threat, it was a promise.
Oh, Jesus. I'd clawed the jealousy out of his black soul to feed my own ego. I was out of my mind last night, tossing my remarks into the dark like matches, thinking they'd never land near the light.
But they did. He caught one.
Now he's going to teach me a lesson by setting my evening on fire.
I swallow the dread and try to gulp in a full breath. Gritting my teeth, I fold my hands together and force myself to smile.
"It hides the bloodstains," I say weakly, mocking his answer to me when I asked why he always wears black.
Something dangerous simmers in his gaze.
He nods once. "Good."
"Good."
We stare at each other, tension hanging between us like smoke, growing thicker with every second.
I don't dare blink.
Not when my eyes start to water, nor when the restaurant door opens, and icy air brushes up my spine.
Not even when David calls out my name.
"Enjoy your date," Gabriel murmurs. His voice is smooth, but there's an edge to it, sharp and surgical.
Though my insides turn in on themselves, I refuse to flinch. "Oh, I will," I say as sweetly as I can muster. "It's going to be a blast."
I turn on my heel and stalk toward David, trepidation vibrating in my knees. He lights up when he sees me, grin broad and eyes roaming.
"Wren! Wow, you look …" He shakes his head so hard the flowers in his hand tremble. "Just, wow."
I plaster on my widest smile. "Thank you, David. It's so nice to see you again," I chime, too jittery and loud for such a fancy restaurant. "You look just as handsome as I remember."
It's not a lie, it's a polite stretching of the truth. I'm sure he looks fine, but I can barely see him through the searing heat on my back.
He presses the bouquet into my hand, mumbling through an apology about being late. Then we follow the hostess to our table, under Gabriel's watchful eye.noveldrama
Something stubborn suddenly knots between my shoulder blades.
You know what? If he wants a first-row seat to the show, I'll give him an Oscar-worthy performance.
Sliding into the chair feels like I'm stepping on stage without knowing my lines. My spine's rigid, my skin's blistering, but my smile is unwavering. How hard can flirting be? I've watched enough rom-coms in my time to figure it out.
I rest my chin on my hand and gaze up at David, trying to ignore the ominous shadow bleeding out from behind his shoulders.
"You know, I've been looking forward to this all week."
He blinks up from the menu. "Really?"
"Uh-huh. I even bought a new outfit." I bite my lip and rake my fingers through my hair, like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. "Do you like it?"
He glances down at my dress, which has been stuffed in the back of my closest for over a year. "Sure, it's beautiful. It's very …" He licks his lips, searching for the appropriate adjective. "Pink."
I throw my head back and laugh like Julia Robert's in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere snaps the jewelry box on her fingers. "Oh, David. I'd forgotten how funny you are."
He flashes me a look of concern. "Are you okay?"
Dragging the napkin into my lap with a tight fist, I smile so hard it hurts. "You know what, David? I've never been better."
We order drinks. He says me drinking lemonade makes me a cheap date.
I giggle like I understand the joke.
Then he tells me about his job. His Sunday soccer league. I nearly burn my wrist on the candle, reaching over to stroke his arm when he tells me, with a rueful look in his eye, that if it weren't for his knee injury, he would have gone pro.
I nod, smile, and laugh in all the right places. Bat my eyelashes and twirl my hair. I even try to speak in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice at one point but drop it after the fifth time he asks me to repeat myself.
Because if he can't hear me, then Gabriel definitely can't.
Gabriel. I've avoided looking up to keep him out of sight, but he's never out of mind. He sits beneath my skin, heavy and constant, pumping each of my heartbeats, squeezing each breath from my lungs. I feel his glare on my throat every time I lean back in my chair. I hear the pop of his gun every time I lean forward over the table.
He's there, watching me.
And I have an awful feeling that he's not just watching but waiting.
Appetizers arrive. I toy with my salad, moving greens and stabbing tomatoes.
David's telling me about the time he almost made it onto national television when the server appears balancing two drinks on a silver platter.
"Lemonade for the lady, whiskey for the gentleman," he says, placing them on the table.
David glances up. "Thanks, but we didn't order these."
The server offers a polite smile. "They're from the gentleman at the bar. The whiskey is a sixty-year-old Smuggler's Club. Only ten bottles were ever produced."
My shoulders hitch to my ears.
David throws a look behind him. "From the guy you were talking to when I arrived? Do you know him?"
"Kind of," I mutter, suddenly feeling faint.
Unease tap dances down my spine as I watch him take a greedy gulp. Then annoyance climbs back up the way because what the hell is he playing at, sending over a drink that probably costs more than my college tuition?
I get it; he's a Visconti. Though he wears the same black top and pants, like every day, I don't doubt he's loaded. But flashing his cash sure as hell isn't going to impress me.
I look over David's head as he takes a second swig, to find Gabriel doing exactly what I thought he would be.
Staring at me.
Without a word, he raises his glass in a mock toast.
"Bless him," I say to David, loud enough for Gabriel to hear. "He's been stood up by his own date. Apparently, she took one look at him and turned right back around." I drop my voice to a stage whisper. "I suppose you run that risk when you use ten-year-old pictures on your online dating profile."
I swear, out of the corner of my eye, I see Gabriel's lips curl upward behind his low-ball glass.
Ten minutes later, David's halfway through a story about his college roommate's dog when he coughs.
It's short, dry. But the second one is harsher.
I give him a sympathetic smile, mutter something about the steak being chewy, and push his water glass toward him.
He moves to lift it, then his hand changes course and flies to his throat.
My eyes narrow. "Are you okay?"
When he opens his mouth to reply, a gurgle bubbles out of it. First, ew. Second, what the hell?
My voice sharpens. "David?"
I palm the table, but before I can leap to my feet, an awful scraping sound cuts through the air.
My pulse skids to a stop.
Black boots, lazy strides. Gabriel emerges from the shadows, dragging a chair behind him, and saunters up to our table. He spins it around with a lazy flick of his wrist, hitches up his slacks, and sinks into it.
I stare at him, frozen in shock. "What have you done?"
He settles against the backrest, like a man taking the weight off his feet after a long day working the yard.
"Lesson three," he says, sounding bored. "Never accept a drink from a stranger."
David makes a horrible, wet sound. His eyes are wide now, red creeping into the whites.
My heartbeat spikes so fast I taste it in the back of my throat. "Make it stop," I whimper. "Please. I'm sorry. I'll do anything. Just … stop."
He casts a disinterested look at my lips before slowly reaching into his pocket as though he has all the time in the world. As though the man to his right isn't running out of it.
"You make it stop."
I stare numbly at the syringe he places on the table. "What does that mean?"
"Say you won't go on another date."
I stare up at him like he's lost his mind.
"What? What do you care if I date?"
He returns my look with an even glare. "You're a safety risk to my family. Anyone who wants to get to Rory, would go through you." He flicks a look of disgust down at my half-eaten salad. "All because you can't resist the chance to talk about yourself over a free dinner."
A beat passes before it hits me like a freight train.
He's lying.
It's in the heat behind his eyes. In the way his jaw tightens beneath his beard.
I breathe out so hard the room spins. "Oh, my God. You really do have a crush on me."
His eyes narrow. "What?"
"Gabriel Visconti," I announce, loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear. "You have a crush on me."
He barks out a laugh laced with unease. "You're out of your fucking mind."
But it's too late; the realization has seeded in my bones and is growing roots.
"It all makes sense now. Why you carried me through the forest after the port explosion instead of bundling me into that trunk. And then when you did bundle me into a trunk, you felt so guilty that you took time out of your night to teach me how to get out of it. You also snapped at that poor sever for literally no reason. Oh—and then there was my panic attack in your garage, you talked me down from that too." My gaze lifts to his. "And we both know what happened after that …" I trail off, leaving bruised wrists and gunshots burning over candles and white linen.
If looks could kill, I'd be dead ten times over. "Say it," he growls. "Say you won't date."
"Say you're jealous."
David lets out a strangled sound, his face now alarmingly pale, lips tinged gray. He slumps over, grappling at crumbs and silverware and nothing that can help him.
Gabriel doesn't even flinch. He just looks at me.
"Time's running out."
I inhale once, slow and deep, and lean back in my chair. I'm trembling, but I force stillness into my limbs, fold my arms across my chest and tilt my chin up, calling his bluff.
"Admit it."
"No."
"No, you don't have a crush on me, or no, you won't admit it?"
Frustration curls his lips. "You're really going to let a man die because of your ego?"
"No, you're going to let him die because of yours."
David gurgles again. My body twitches on instinct, a plea on my tongue. All the good in me wants to help—knows I should help—but something low and ugly and stubborn inside of me slithers up from where I buried it years ago and stitches my arms to my side.
It's not like I've never seen a man die before.
Besides, his name is David.
And David is the king of boring anecdotes.
Gabriel and I stare at each other as though we're the only ones in the restaurant. His gaze is inflamed, but he sits as still as stone, watching my every blink.
I'm sick in mind, body, and spirit.
My date is dying, and I'm too ugly to care. Too distracted, too captivated by the monster beside him. His attention is addicting. It burns through my veins, settles in cells of my DNA, and brings the world to rights.
Gabriel Visconti has just poisoned a man for me.
Me.
A river of calm trickles through me.
I wouldn't cave for love or money.
It's not what I was born to do.
David lets out a final breath, slow and stuttered.
I flash Gabriel a halfhearted smile. "Oops."
His gaze mars with uncertainty. He opens his mouth, but another voice from the shadows cuts him off.
"Um, Boss?"
He turns his eyes to the ceiling and runs a hand down his throat, then swallows.
Seconds etch by before he barks out a curse. Then he reaches for the syringe on the table, and with one swift, reluctant motion, he stabs it into David's neck.
His eyes spark to mine, all the hatred in the world fanning the flames. "Happy?"
I hitch a shoulder. "Indifferent."
We both look down at David's lifeless body. A beat passes. Then another. Then suddenly, he inhales a violent breath. His chest jerks and a cough rips from his throat, messy and wet.
The restaurant leaps into action. Chairs scrape, suits appear. Large hands fist fabric.
Every head in the restaurant turns to watch David's withering body as two men drag him through the maze of tables and toward the kitchen.
I hear the hum of murmurs like they're coming from another room. See hands clamp over mouths and rest over hearts but only in my peripheral.
A roomful of Good Samaritans. None of them are me.
With my spine rigid and too few breaths, I slowly drag my napkin from my lap and lay it gently on the table.
I stare down at the candlelight dancing on the walls of David's empty glass. "I guess it's time to call it a night."
The words trickle from my lips, void of feeling. They sound as empty as I am.
Carefully, I rise from the table, pushing back my chair with more steadiness than I feel.
I don't say another word. Neither does he, but it doesn't matter. Because I notice the tight jaw and the sharp lines of his shoulders. I see the tremble in his palms spread flat against the table. I feel his gaze, murderously cold, follow me across the restaurant and out of the door.
The night air hits me like a punch, more violent than a midnight email ever could. I stagger forward toward the light of a streetlamp, but I don't make it that far before I double over, grip my thighs, and throw up all the rot within.
The burn of bile lingering at the back of my throat, I wipe a shaky hand over my mouth and force myself to straighten up.
He wants me.
Gabriel Visconti wants me.
It never left his lips, but I saw it between the cracks of his galvanized demeanor, and catching sight of it was the worst, most dangerous, irreversible, soul-ruining thing I could have ever done.
Because no matter how much pink I wear or how many good deeds I do, that one sentence—five words, thirty-five characters, including spaces—is set in stone.
Mildred Black has a daughter.
And she is exactly like her.