Demand by Lisa Renée Jones Page B

an alcove and pull out my phone. Sure enough, Gallo has indeed texted me the meeting details, and it appears that Caffè del Cinque has become Bar del Cinque. I’m not quite sure what to make of that, especially at this early hour, but whatever the case, I key the address into Google, and discover that it’s straight ahead and to the right.
    Pushing off the wall, I start walking again, but I’ve only taken a few steps when that same sense of being watched, which I felt in the castle hallway, returns. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a couple of women behind me that seem to be chatting it up, but no one else. Still, that feeling persists, and though I charge forward, I reach under my coat to unzip my purse, keeping my hand there for easy access to Charlie.
    Uneventfully, I turn the corner and arrive at “Bar del Cinque.” The door is standing open despite the cold, and Italian pop music drifts outside. I cross the threshold, pausing just inside the entryway to find what I’d consider a typical American hotspot with clusters of wooden tables and a few booths near the back. To my left, the half-moon-shaped bar has been transformed from a place to drink to a place to display a lineup of pastries and coffee cups, proving I have much to learn about how Rome operates. I wonder what it would feel like to know this place as home, the way Kayden does, and to do so with him. But if Kayden is one of the most powerful men in Europe, which surely he is, as is Niccolo, how can Kayden expect that I can stay long term, and never cross paths with him? Unless . . . he doesn’t expect me to stay?
    â€œEleana!”
    At the sound of my fake name, I scan the mostly full tables and finally spot Gallo standing by a booth in the back of the room. I zip my purse up, stuff my phone into my pocket, and move in his direction. He watches my approach, transfixed it seems and not in a sexual way; more clinical, assessing. If he thought it’d make me uneasy, he’s failed. Instead, I have the sense that he’s trying to figure me out and doesn’t mind me knowing it, which is a bit unnerving yet also comforting. His gaze says he doesn’t have the full picture of who I am— yet. But he’s trying way too hard.
    And too soon, I am at the side of the table facing him and I see that his normally wrinkled suit is fairly well-pressed today, while the shadow on his jawline appears as perpetual as the sharpness of his gray eyes.
    â€œEleana,” he greets me, the name sliding off his tongue much more comfortably than it meets my ears.
    â€œDetective.”
    He waves me to my seat. “Shall we?”
    I take a seat and when he joins me, sitting across from me, I note the red streaking the whites of his eyes. “You look tired,” I say. “Did you stay up all night, thinking about how to terrorize me today?”
    â€œI got up early to make a meeting,” he replies dryly, his eyes lighting with amusement, not irritation. “Nice of you to finally show up for it.”
    In this moment, with his mood slightly lighter, I’m reluctantly reminded that he’s rather handsome—a detail that doesn’t help me keep Giada away from him. “You said this place was a café,” I say, “but the sign says bar . That was very confusing.”
    â€œ Bar means ‘coffee bar.’ ”
    I want to ask about Giada’s text messages, but jumping into that topic might indicate the severity of my concern, so I stick to small talk. “I’ve been to a bar here in Rome, and it was beer and wine.”
    â€œA bar can be many things,” he says, and pauses for obvious effect. “As can a person.”
    â€œIt’s confusing,” I comment, pretending not to notice he’s talking about me, and has somehow managed to nail my fear that I am not who I think I am.
    â€œNot to Italians,” he replies, “but you, Eleana, are another story.