“Not Yet,” She Told the Capo—Then the Mafia Boss Silenced the Entire City With His Jealousy.48

Noah Moretti’s voice was soft enough to make Lyra wish he had shouted.

She stood on the wooden fitting stool with two pins between her lips and a piece of white tailor’s chalk frozen in her hand. Rain whispered against the front windows of Bellini Bespoke, blurring the headlights outside into pale rivers of gold.

Lyra removed the pins slowly.

“It means exactly what it sounds like.”

Noah’s dark gaze remained fixed on her face.

“You’re planning to have one?”

She almost laughed. Not because the question was funny, but because it was absurd. This was Noah Moretti, the man rumored to control every gambling room, nightclub, and shipping warehouse west of the river. He had politicians returning his calls before their wives did. Men crossed streets to avoid meeting his eyes.

Yet he was standing in her nearly bankrupt tailor shop, visibly offended by the hypothetical existence of a man who had not even entered her life.

“I’m planning to finish your suit,” Lyra said. “Anything beyond that isn’t part of today’s appointment.”

Near the door, Paulie lowered his head as if hiding a smile.

Noah noticed.

“Outside.”

Paulie’s amusement vanished.

“Boss?”

“Now.”

Paulie opened the door and stepped into the rain without another word.

Lyra climbed down from the stool. “That was unnecessary.”

“He was distracting you.”

“He was standing twenty feet away.”

“He was breathing loudly.”

“He always breathes loudly.”

Noah’s mouth moved slightly. It might have been the beginning of a smile, but it never fully formed.

Lyra turned toward the cutting table, determined to regain control of the appointment. She picked up her notebook, then frowned.

A white envelope rested beneath it.

She had seen dozens like it over the past three months. Each one contained a final warning, a demand for payment, or a polite threat disguised as professional language.

Noah followed her gaze.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

He reached for it.

Lyra slapped her hand over the envelope before he could touch it.

The movement shocked both of them.

No one slapped anything away from Noah Moretti.

The room became still again.

Lyra’s heartbeat hammered against her ribs, but she did not remove her hand.

“My mail,” she said. “My business.”

Noah looked at her fingers, then at her face.

“You’re behind on the lease.”

It was not a question.

“Did you read it upside down?”

“I read people.”

“Then read this: I don’t need help.”

His eyes moved across the shop—the worn chairs, the old steam press, the ceiling stain spreading over the fitting area. He saw everything she had tried to hide.

“This place belonged to your father.”

“It still belongs to me.”

“For another three weeks, according to that envelope.”

Heat rose into her cheeks. She hated that he knew. She hated even more that part of her felt relieved.

Noah picked up his jacket from the chair.

“How much?”

“No.”

“I asked how much.”

“And I said no.”

He stepped closer. “You would rather lose the shop?”

“I would rather lose it than owe you.”

Something changed behind his eyes.

It was not anger. It was recognition.

Most people accepted favors from Noah before he finished offering them. They understood that generosity from a powerful man was another form of ownership.

Lyra understood too.

That was why she refused.

Noah put on his jacket, the dark wool settling across his shoulders like armor.

“Friday,” he said.

“Your suit will be ready.”

“I wasn’t talking about the suit.”

Before she could respond, the front door opened. Paulie entered, rain glistening on his shaved head.

“Boss, we have a problem.”

Noah did not look away from Lyra. “What kind?”

“Salvatore problem.”

That name erased the strange tension from Noah’s face.

Lyra had lived in the neighborhood long enough to know the Salvatore family. They controlled the south docks and believed every street between the docks and downtown belonged to them by divine right.

Paulie continued. “One of their cars has been sitting across the street for twenty minutes.”

Noah finally turned toward the window.

A black sedan waited beneath a dead streetlamp. Its engine was running.

“Could be watching me,” Noah said.

Paulie shook his head. “It was here before we arrived.”

Noah’s gaze moved back to Lyra.

She felt the temperature drop.

“Who have you been talking to?”

“Nobody.”

“Has anyone come into the shop asking questions?”

“Customers ask questions. That’s how tailoring works.”

“Lyra.”

The way he said her name ended the argument.

She thought about the man who had visited two days earlier. Young, nervous, expensive shoes. He had claimed to need alterations, but the jacket he carried still had the department store tags attached.

He had asked when Noah usually came in.

Lyra had told him to leave.

“A man came by,” she admitted. “He asked about you.”

Noah’s expression became completely blank.

“What did he look like?”

She described him.

Paulie swore under his breath. “Marco Salvatore.”

Noah crossed to the window and pulled the blind down.

“You’re closing early.”

“I have work.”

“You’re closing now.”

“You don’t own my schedule.”

“No, but the man across the street may be planning to put a bullet through your window.”

Lyra looked toward the dark sedan.

For the first time, the shop no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt like a glass box.

Noah took her coat from the hook and held it out.

“You’re coming with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

He stepped close enough that she had to tilt her head back.

“I asked you one personal question today,” he said. “You didn’t give me an answer I liked. Don’t make me hear another.”

“You cannot order me around.”

“You’re right.”

His voice lowered.

“I can only keep you alive.”

The lights across the street flashed once.

Paulie reached beneath his jacket.

Noah moved instantly. One hand caught Lyra around the waist while the other pulled her behind the cutting table.

The front window exploded.

Glass burst through the shop in a glittering storm. Lyra hit the floor beneath Noah’s weight as three gunshots tore through the mannequins behind them.

Paulie fired toward the street.

Tires screamed outside.

Then there was silence.

Lyra’s ears rang. Her cheek pressed against Noah’s chest, and beneath her palm she felt his heart pounding—not with fear, but fury.

He lifted his head and searched her face.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

Blood darkened his white shirt near the shoulder.

Her breath caught. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s glass.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know what bullets feel like.”

That answer frightened her more than the gunfire.

Noah stood and pulled her up with him. His arm remained locked around her waist.

The front of Bellini Bespoke was destroyed. Rain swept through the broken window. Her father’s old mannequin lay on its side, its painted face shattered.

Lyra stared at the ruin of the only place she had ever truly called home.

“No,” she whispered.

Noah looked at the wreckage, then at her.

His jealousy had been cold.

His anger was something else entirely.

He touched her face with bloodstained fingers, checking for cuts.

“They used you to send me a message,” he said.

Lyra forced herself to meet his eyes.

“What happens now?”