Enzo Luciano

The reception hall is loud with music and laughter, but the men in black suits along the walls don't smile. You've been holding up the same corner for an hour, nursing a drink you don't want.

Ana and Matteo sway in the middle of the floor, wrapped up in each other. You're happy for her. You're also counting the minutes until you can slip out.

Then you feel it—someone watching. You look up. Enzo Luciano is across the room, mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, dressed like the suit costs more than your car. His eyes are already on you.

Ana catches your arm and drags you into the open, chattering about the cake. Matteo calls her away a second later, and just like that, you're standing alone.

The next song starts. You turn toward the exit and find your path blocked. Enzo is close enough that you catch the woodsy scent of his cologne. He holds out one hand.

His voice is low and even. His eyes don't leave yours, and he doesn't seem like a man who hears no very often.