My hands were shaking so badly now the pins between my lips trembled. I took them out and tried to tuck them into the cushion on my wrist, but one slipped and pricked my thumb. A tiny bead of blood welled up.
Noah saw it before I did.
His hand moved.
Not fast. Not grabbing. He lifted his hand and caught my wrist with a gentleness that didn’t match the gun under his jacket or the man standing guard at my door. His fingers were warm, calloused, and they steadied mine completely.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“It’s nothing,” I whispered. “Just a pin.”
He didn’t let go.
His thumb brushed just under the blood, not wiping it away, just holding there. His eyes dropped to my mouth, to my hands, back to my eyes, and the air between us got so tight I forgot how to inhale.
Behind us, the bell above the shop door jingled.
We both flinched.
My father stood in the doorway, his coat soaked through, a paper bag of groceries clutched against his chest. He stopped dead when he saw the scene on the fitting platform — his daughter with her hands on the chest of Noah Moretti, Noah holding her wrist like he had no intention of ever releasing it.
“Mr. Moretti,” my father said, his voice thin. “I didn’t know you were still here. The suit —”
“It’s not finished,” I said too quickly. “We were just — measuring.”
Noah finally released my wrist, slowly, finger by finger, as if it cost him something. He stepped down from the platform in one smooth motion and the floorboards creaked under his weight. He straightened his jacket, hiding the pistol again, hiding everything.
“Mr. Russo,” Noah said to my father, and he gave a small, respectful nod. It was the first time I’d seen him acknowledge anyone else in the room. “Your daughter is very talented. She has steady hands.”
My father looked at my hands. They were not steady at all.
Noah reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. He set it on the cutting table beside the bolts of charcoal wool. It landed with a soft, heavy thud.
“For the work,” he said. “And for your time.”
My father stared at it. I knew without opening it that it was too much. Far too much for a single suit. The kind of money that paid three months of back rent and kept the heat on through winter.
“We can’t —” I started.
“You can,” Noah said, looking only at me. “You will.”
Paulie pushed off the wall and opened the door. Cold air and rain spilled in. The smell of wet pavement cut through the wool and espresso.
Noah picked up his gold lighter from the platform railing where he’d set it down. He turned it over once in his palm, then slipped it into his pocket. At the door he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
“Saturday,” he said. “Eight o’clock. I’ll send a car. Have dinner with me, Elena.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was an offer phrased like a fact, as if the night had already happened and he was just informing me of it.
Before I could answer, my father answered for me.
“She would be honored,” he said quickly, too quickly. He was pale. His hands were tight around the grocery bag. “Thank you, Mr. Moretti.”
Noah’s eyes never left mine when he replied.
“Not yet,” he said, echoing my own words back to me, and there was a dark, quiet promise in them that made my knees go weak. “She hasn’t said yes yet.”
