Page 18 of Luca
I look down. There's a small switchblade lying near where we fell, probably dropped when I tackled her. Shit! She dropped the knife. I reach down and grab it before someone else does, then slip it into my purse.
"Sofia." Luca's voice is carefully controlled. "We need to talk."
He quickly takes me to a café nearby because apparently that’s what civilized people do after public chaos. Luca orders an espresso. I order a bottled water because my hands are still shaking and if I get espresso my soul may vibrate out of my body.
When the drinks arrive, I down half the bottle and feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. He doesn’t speak at first. He just watches me drink. Every time I swallow, his gaze drops to my throat like he’s cataloging it with the same thoroughness he used on my body last night.
“So,” he says finally, low and conversational. “Explain.”
“What do you mean?” I aim for innocent. “Explain what? That I prefer water over espresso? I’m hot and the caffeine will make me shaky.”
“You chased a thief through a crowd and put her on the ground like you’ve done it before.”
He pauses to see if I’ll speak. I don’t.
“Then you cursed and threatened her with words Tony doesn’t use in front of his kids,” he continues.
I try righteous indignation. “She’s a thief! She stole from me. I had every right to go after her.”
“You reacted like tackling a pick-pocket was muscle memory. You didn’t hesitate…at all.”
“I was mad, okay. My phone has everything on it, my photos, contacts. Can you imagine if you lost your phone? How mad you would be?”
“We have two bodyguards who could’ve handled it.”
I glance over at Tony who is trying to look inconspicuous while standing awkwardly beside a potted plant. “Oh really?” I lean closer and lower my voice. “Your bodyguards need to be in better shape if they plan to catch a pick-pocket in a foot race.”
“You might be right,” he admits. “But that still doesn’t explain how you were able to catch her.”
“I’ve taken self-defense classes,” I explain.
Luca's eyes narrow. "What kind of classes?"
"Krav Maga. Street fighting techniques." I'm in full bullshit mode now. "The instructor said women needed to know how to handle real situations, not just gym scenarios. Chokeholds, kidnappings, that kind of thing. Luckily, I’ve never had to use it until today."
Luca studies me for a long moment. "Does this self-defense instructor have a name?"
"Giuseppe. Giuseppe..." I scramble for a last name that sounds believable. "Salvatore."
"Your instructor has the same last name of one of the most powerful families in Italy?"
"Common name," I say with a shrug that I hope looks casual.
Good luck trying to find a fake Krav Maga instructor named Giuseppe.
He takes another sip of espresso. "What gym was this at?"
"Oh, it closed down. Few years ago. I hated to see it go. He taught me a lot."
The silence stretches between us. He’s picking apart my story, looking for holes. There are plenty to find.
"You know what I find the most interesting?" he says finally.
"What?"
He leans in, forearms to the little marble table, the threat not in his volume but in the space he occupies. My knee brushes his under the table; he doesn’t move away. If anything, he presses, like he’s reminding me who’s bigger and stronger.
"You didn't look scared. Not once. Most people, they get their phone stolen, they panic. They scream for help. They freeze up." His eyes are locked on mine. "And yet, you seemed like you were enjoying yourself."
