The moment I told the most feared mafia capo in the city I didn’t have a boyfriend yet, the entire tailor shop fell silent.
His gold lighter snapped shut like a gunshot.
And in that single heartbeat, I realized I had awakened a jealousy neither of us was prepared to face.
My name is Elena. My father’s tailor shop on Fourth Street was small, worn down, and months behind on rent.
But it was the only future I had left.
That afternoon, the familiar smell of hot irons and damp wool was overwhelmed by rain, espresso, gun oil, and the unmistakable presence of Noah Moretti.
Everyone in New York knew his name.
The west-side capo never needed to raise his voice. His silence frightened people more than shouting ever could.
He stood on the fitting platform while I wrapped a measuring tape across his broad shoulders. Even without moving, he seemed to fill every corner of the room.
“Arms up,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady.
He obeyed without a word.
The tape circled his chest, and my fingers accidentally brushed his collarbone. Heat radiated through his shirt while the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pulsed only inches from my face.
I reminded myself he was simply another customer.
Nothing more.
Behind him, his bodyguard Paulie stood beside the entrance with his arms folded. He watched me the way a guard dog watched strangers, never blinking for long.
I wrote Noah’s measurements onto my notepad and stepped closer again to measure his waist.
My fingers brushed the cold steel of a pistol hidden beneath his jacket.
I pretended not to notice.
“You don’t talk much,” Noah said.
“I charge by the suit, Mr. Moretti,” I replied. “Not by the conversation.”
For the first time, I caught the faintest hint of amusement in his reflection.
“Most people can’t stop talking around me,” he said quietly. “Silence makes them nervous.”
“I’m concentrating on your suit.”
That was only half true.
The other half was that my hands were trembling.
The shop was three months behind on rent. The heating barely worked. And the bank kept sending overdue notices.
Noah’s money might have come from dangerous places, but it would still keep our doors open.
Then, without warning, he asked me something I never expected.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
The question froze me.
