"Alfio?"
The sound of my name slithered through the air like a cursed melody—and I froze, mid-bite, mozzarella hanging from my lip like a limp flag of doom.
No. No. No.
I turned, already bracing for the worst, and there he was.
Riccardo Costa.
The man I'd been avoiding like a tax audit and STDs, now standing just a few feet away, glaring at me in all his tall, furious, painfully gorgeous glory. Hair slicked back like he walked off a noir film set, clad in a fitted black suit that screamed both "officer of the law" and "I cry in the shower."
I should've known. Of course the universe would choose this moment—while I was mid-chew, stuffing my face like an unsupervised gremlin—to toss me into hell.
"I... didn't know I'd be seeing you here," he said, with all the tortured drama of a man watching his lover marry someone else on a rainy rooftop.
