Chapter 4 - Dinner with a Dangerous ManEmma spent Friday evening trying to decide what a woman should wear to dinner with a man who could probably buy the restaurant, the building it stood in, and the entire block without checking his bank balance.
The question, she decided, was ridiculous.
She owned three dresses suitable for occasions that required something nicer than jeans. One was black, one was navy, and one was green with a small tear near the hem that she had been meaning to repair for six months.
The black dress was too formal.
The navy dress made her look like she was attending a job interview.
The green dress was comfortable, but the tear was dangerously close to becoming visible whenever she sat down.
Emma stood in front of her bedroom mirror, holding the dresses against herself.
"This is absurd," she told her reflection.
Her reflection offered no useful advice.
She had dated before. She had experienced awkward first kisses, disappointing coffee dates, and men who described themselves as emotionally available before explaining that they were still living with their ex-girlfriends.
Dinner was not a marriage proposal.
It was not a commitment.
It was certainly not a reason to spend forty minutes worrying about a hemline.
Yet here she was.
She selected the black dress.
Then she changed into the green one.
Then she changed back into the black dress.
Finally, she threw both onto the bed and called Rosa.
The older woman answered on the second ring.
"Did he cancel?"
"Hello to you, too."
"Did he?"
"No."
"Then why are you calling me at nine on a Friday night?"
Emma glanced at the dresses scattered across the bed.
"I need advice."
"About Vincent?"
"No. About a completely different wealthy man with a mysterious reputation who happens to be taking me to dinner tomorrow."
Rosa laughed.
"You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Then you're calling to ask about the weather."
Emma sat on the edge of the bed.
"I don't know what to wear."
"Something you feel beautiful in."
"That sounds like advice from a greeting card."
"Fine. Wear the black dress."
Emma stared at the dress.
"How did you know I was considering the black dress?"
"Because you always choose black when you're frightened of making a mistake."
Emma fell silent.
Rosa's voice softened.
"Listen to me, mija. You don't need to impress this man. If he invited you because he wants to meet you, then let him meet you. Not some version of you dressed for his approval."
Emma looked down at her hands.
"What if I don't like him?"
"Then you eat dinner, say thank you, and go home."
"What if I do?"
Rosa was quiet for a moment.
"Then you take your time finding out whether the man you like is the same man he allows the rest of the world to see."
Emma swallowed.
"That sounds ominous."
"It is meant to."
"You're supposed to be encouraging me."
"I'm encouraging you to keep your eyes open."
Rosa paused.
"And Emma?"
"Yes?"
"You are allowed to enjoy something without knowing how it will end."
After they hung up, Emma sat on her bed for a long time.
Then she repaired the tear in the green dress.
She had no intention of letting a man with expensive tastes dictate what she wore.
On Saturday evening, Vincent stood in front of a mirror in his Manhattan townhouse and adjusted his cuffs.
He had changed shirts twice.
The first was too formal. The second looked as though he were attending a business meeting.
The third was a simple dark-blue shirt beneath a charcoal jacket, with no tie.
Daniel watched from the doorway.
"You look fine."
Vincent glanced at him.
"Did I ask?"
"No."
"Then why are you answering?"
"Because you've changed your clothes three times, and I suspect a fourth attempt will only make things worse."
Vincent returned his attention to the mirror.
"She works at a diner."
"Yes."
"She probably eats dinner at a diner every day."
"Probably."
"I should take her somewhere ordinary."
Daniel raised an eyebrow.
"You could take her to the diner where you met."
Vincent considered the suggestion.
"She would think I was mocking her."
"Would you be?"
"No."
"Then perhaps you should stop assuming that everyone interprets things the way you do."
Vincent turned.
Daniel had worked for him long enough to know when to push and when to remain silent. The fact that he was offering unsolicited advice suggested that he believed Vincent needed it.
"Have you ever considered a career in diplomacy?" Vincent asked.
"No. I enjoy having fewer enemies."
Vincent almost smiled.
Then his expression grew serious.
"Did you find anything else?"
Daniel's amusement disappeared.
"About Adrian?"
"Yes."
"His accounts have been active since the third transfer. The money moved through two shell companies before reaching an investment fund registered in Delaware."
"Who owns it?"
"We're still tracing the final beneficiaries."
"How long?"
"Two days, perhaps three."
Vincent's jaw tightened.
"Make it one."
Daniel did not argue.
He knew that Vincent's patience had limits, particularly where Isabella was concerned.
"There's something else," Daniel said.
"What?"
"Adrian called the hospital twice on the day Isabella was admitted."
Vincent became very still.
"Why?"
"We don't know."
"Find out."
"I will."
Daniel hesitated before continuing.
"And Vincent? If you suspect that he had something to do with what happened to Isabella, don't confront him until we know more."
Vincent looked at his reflection.
For years, he had built his life around anticipating betrayal. He had learned to recognize lies in the pauses between words, to notice when a man reached for his drink before answering a difficult question, to understand that loyalty was often a calculation disguised as affection.
But Adrian had been there when Isabella was born.
He had held her in the hospital waiting room when Vincent was too afraid to touch her.
He had sent flowers after her mother died.
The idea that he might have been involved in anything that hurt her was almost impossible to comprehend.
"Prepare the car," Vincent said.
Daniel nodded.
"Already waiting."
"And Daniel?"
"Yes?"
"No one follows us tonight."
Daniel looked at him carefully.
"Not even at a distance?"
"Not unless there's a genuine emergency."
Daniel understood the importance of the instruction.
For one evening, Vincent wanted to be a man having dinner with a woman he liked, not a powerful figure surrounded by people paid to anticipate danger.
"Understood."
The restaurant was called Bellini's.
It occupied the ground floor of a narrow brick building on the Upper West Side, between a bookstore and a small florist. Warm light spilled through its windows, and a handwritten menu stood beside the entrance.
Emma arrived at six fifty-seven.
She had taken the subway rather than a taxi, partly because she refused to spend money unnecessarily and partly because she wanted time to collect herself.
The restaurant looked pleasant.
Not extravagant. Not intimidating.
There were candles on the tables, small arrangements of winter greenery, and shelves filled with bottles of wine. Couples spoke in low voices, while a waiter carried plates of pasta between the tables.
Emma checked her reflection in the window.
The green dress looked good.
Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and she had applied just enough makeup to make herself feel polished without looking as though she had tried too hard.
She was adjusting her scarf when a voice spoke behind her.
"You look beautiful."
Emma turned.
Vincent stood a few feet away, holding no flowers and wearing no expression that suggested he expected to be rewarded for the compliment.
He looked younger without the severe overcoat he had worn at the diner. His dark-blue shirt was open at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the hollow at the base of his throat.
The silver at his temples caught the streetlight.
For one inconvenient moment, Emma forgot what she had planned to say.
"Thank you," she managed.
His gaze moved briefly to the restaurant.
"Is this acceptable?"
She smiled.
"It has windows."
"Several, as promised."
"And it doesn't look like a place where people sign secret contracts over dessert."
"Those establishments tend to have better lighting."
Emma laughed.
The sound seemed to relax him.
He offered his arm, then stopped before she could take it.
"Would you prefer not to?"
The question surprised her.
She slipped her hand lightly around his arm.
"I think I can survive walking into a restaurant with you."
"That makes one of us."
She looked up at him.
"Are you nervous?"
"Very."
She blinked.
Vincent opened the restaurant door.
"Shall we?"
For the first time that evening, Emma smiled without trying to hide it.
Their table was near the front window.
Vincent had apparently made a reservation under his first name, because the host greeted him without the exaggerated deference Emma had expected.
They were seated within minutes.
A waiter brought water and menus. Emma studied the list, silently calculating the prices against her weekly grocery budget.
Vincent noticed.
"You don't have to choose based on the price."
She looked up.
"I know."
"I only meant—"
"I know what you meant. But I do have to choose based on the price. That's how budgets work."
He closed his menu.
"Then I'll follow your lead."
She studied him.
"You don't have to pretend you're not rich."
"I'm not pretending."
"You're trying very hard not to make me uncomfortable."
"Is it working?"
She considered the question.
"A little."
"Then I'll continue."
Emma shook her head, smiling.
They ordered pasta, roasted vegetables, and sparkling water. Vincent asked about her work, and she told him about the diner, the evening administrative job at a small accounting office, and the occasional weekend shifts she took helping a neighbor with her catering business.
He listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he asked, "Do you enjoy any of it?"
"The diner."
"And the rest?"
"The accounting office pays better than the diner. The catering shifts help with emergencies."
"That's a great deal of work."
"Rent doesn't care whether you're tired."
Vincent looked at her for a moment.
"No. I suppose it doesn't."
She could have asked him about his work, but she was reluctant to open a door she wasn't sure she wanted to walk through.
Instead, she asked about Isabella.
The name changed his expression, but he did not withdraw.
"What was her favorite subject at school?"
"Science. She was convinced her teacher was wrong about Pluto."
"Was she?"
"Technically, no. She simply refused to accept that a planet could lose its title because adults changed the rules."
Emma smiled.
"I like her already."
Vincent looked down at his water.
"She would have liked you."
The words were simple.
They were also the first thing he had said that evening that made Emma feel the full weight of his grief.
She set down her fork.
"Vincent, I need to be clear about something."
He looked up.
"All right."
"I don't want to become a replacement for anyone. Not your wife, not your daughter, and not the life you wish you had."
His face tightened.
"I would never ask that of you."
"I'm glad. But I need to say it anyway."
He nodded slowly.
"I spent years trying to become the father Isabella needed. I failed her in ways I cannot repair. If I ever allow someone into my life again, I don't want them to be a solution to that failure."
He held her gaze.
"I want them to be a person I choose to know."
Emma felt her throat tighten.
"That's a good answer."
"It's also the truth."
For a moment, they sat quietly.
Then Vincent said, "Can I ask you something equally difficult?"
"Go ahead."
"Why do you work so hard?"
Emma leaned back.
She could have given him the easy answer. She needed the money. She liked being busy. She had bills.
All of those things were true.
None of them explained everything.
"Because when I'm working, I know what I'm supposed to do."
Vincent waited.
"If someone orders coffee, I make coffee. If a customer needs help, I help them. If there's a problem, I try to solve it. There's usually a right answer."
"And when there isn't?"
She looked at him.
"Then I work longer until I don't have time to think about it."
His expression softened.
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is."
"Have you always been like that?"
Emma traced the edge of her napkin.
"My father left when I was twelve. My mother remarried, and after that, everything seemed to become more complicated. I learned early that being easy to take care of made people more likely to keep you around."
Vincent's eyes darkened.
"Emma—"
"I'm not telling you this because I want you to feel sorry for me."
"I know."
"I just don't want us to sit here pretending that we're two perfectly healthy people who happened to meet on a snowy night."
He nodded.
"That seems reasonable."
She smiled faintly.
"Good. Because I'm not interested in becoming anyone's rescue project."
"Neither am I."
Their food arrived, interrupting the conversation.
For a while, they ate.
The silence felt different now. Less like a pause between confessions and more like the beginning of a comfort neither had expected.
Emma told him about a customer who had once tried to pay for breakfast with a box of antique buttons. Vincent told her about Isabella's attempt to teach a security guard ballet.
He had been in a meeting when she marched into his office wearing a pink tutu and announced that the guard was the only person in the house who knew how to stand still long enough to learn.
"What happened?" Emma asked.
"He learned the first position."
"Of course he did."
"He was very proud of himself."
"I hope you have photographic evidence."
Vincent's smile faded slightly.
"I do."
He reached for his phone, hesitated, then opened a photograph.
A large man in a black suit stood awkwardly in the middle of a living room, one foot turned outward, while Isabella laughed so hard she had fallen onto the carpet.
Emma laughed too.
Then she noticed Vincent watching her rather than the photograph.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Looking at me as though you're trying to remember something."
He lowered his phone.
"I was thinking that I haven't shown anyone that picture since she died."
Emma's smile softened.
"Thank you for showing me."
He nodded.
For the first time, the memory did not seem to hurt him quite as sharply as it had before.
It still hurt.
But there was room for the laughter, too.
They left the restaurant shortly after nine.
Vincent offered to call a car, but Emma declined.
"I can take the subway."
"I know."
"Then don't look so disappointed."
"I'm not disappointed."
"You're doing a very poor job of hiding it."
He smiled.
"May I walk you to the station?"
She considered it.
"Yes."
They walked slowly along the sidewalk, where the last patches of snow had begun to turn gray beneath the streetlights.
The city was busy with Saturday-night traffic. Couples hurried toward theaters, delivery cyclists navigated the streets, and the windows of small shops glowed against the cold.
Emma found herself matching Vincent's pace without thinking about it.
At the subway entrance, she turned toward him.
"I had a good time."
"So did I."
"I mean it."
"I know."
She looked at him for a moment.
"Are you always this certain of what other people mean?"
"No. Usually I pay someone to find out."
She laughed.
"That must be convenient."
"It has its disadvantages."
"Such as?"
He hesitated.
"People stop telling you the truth because they assume you already know it."
Emma considered that.
"That sounds lonely."
"It is."
The admission hung between them.
She stepped closer, not quite touching him.
"I'd like to see you again," she said.
His expression changed.
For a moment, he seemed almost unable to believe what he had heard.
"Would you?"
"Yes. But I want to take this slowly."
"Of course."
"And I want to know who you are. Not the version of you everyone else is afraid of."
Vincent looked at her.
"That may take some time."
"I have a busy schedule. You may need to make an appointment."
He laughed softly.
Then his expression grew serious.
"I would like that, Emma."
She reached up and kissed his cheek.
It was a small gesture. Barely more than a brush of her lips against his skin.
But Vincent went completely still.
When she stepped back, he looked at her as though the world had shifted beneath his feet.
"Good night, Vincent."
"Good night."
Emma descended the subway stairs before she could do anything more reckless.
She did not look back until she reached the turnstile.
He was still standing at the top of the steps.
Watching her go.
Vincent returned to his townhouse at ten fifteen.
Daniel was waiting in the study.
"We have a problem," he said.
Vincent removed his coat.
"What happened?"
"Adrian knows we're investigating the transfers."
"How?"
"We don't know. But he contacted two of the men who manage the foundation's accounts and told them to prepare for an audit."
Vincent's expression hardened.
"When?"
"An hour ago."
"Did he move the money?"
"Not yet."
Vincent walked to the desk and opened the folder Daniel had left earlier.
"Find him."
"He's at his apartment."
"Bring him here."
Daniel hesitated.
"Vincent, I think we should wait until we know more."
"We've waited long enough."
"There's something else."
Vincent looked up.
Daniel placed a second photograph on the desk.
It showed a man standing outside the private entrance to the hospital where Isabella had been treated.
The date printed beneath the image was December twenty-second.
The day Isabella had died.
Vincent studied the photograph.
"Who is that?"
"We're still confirming his identity. He appears in security footage near the hospital's service entrance. He left eleven minutes before Isabella's condition deteriorated."
Vincent felt the room narrow around him.
"Was he connected to Adrian?"
"We don't know."
"Find out."
Daniel nodded.
Vincent turned toward the window.
He had spent the evening remembering Isabella's laughter. For two hours, he had allowed himself to be something other than a man haunted by the past.
Now the past had returned, carrying questions he could no longer ignore.
He thought of Emma's hand resting lightly on his arm as they entered the restaurant.
He thought of her laughter.
He thought of the way she had looked at him when she said she wanted to know who he really was.
May you like
And he wondered what she would do when she learned that the man she was beginning to trust might be connected to something far more dangerous than grief.
End of Chapter 4
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