For The Plot

Ref Do Something

I laugh so hard my lashes almost fly off. "I'll update you both after the date. Promise."

Megan blows me a kiss. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do—which is basically nothing. Go live your mob wife fantasy, bestie."

Then my phone vibrates.

SERGIO: I'm outside, il mio fiore.

Whew. I yell, "Bye, Mom!" toward the back of the house. But she's in bed watching Facebook Reels on max volume, deep in the trenches of auntie internet. She wouldn't hear a smoke alarm right now.

Outside, the sun's dipped low and it's officially chilly. Fall is doing her little performance.

A black Audi is parked at the curb, sleek and shiny like it's allergic to poor people. Sergio steps out.

He's wearing a charcoal cashmere coat over a navy suit, no tie, two buttons open. A silver chain peeks out from his shirt, and his ice-blue eyes hit under the streetlight like a villain's origin story. Tousled chestnut hair, sharp jawline—he looks like luxury and unresolved trauma.

Then—boom. He's holding a real cream-colored fur coat that matches my outfit perfectly.

"Thought you might get cold," he says, opening it for me.

"Wait—this is real fur?" I ask, slipping it on like I was born in wealth.

He smirks. "Only the best for you, il mio fiore."

I slide into the car, still stunned. "You sent me a full outfit, a spa day, and now this? Sergio, I feel like a rich villainess in a Netflix thriller. All I'm missing is a secret bank account in the Cayman Islands."

He chuckles. "You deserve to feel this way. And more."

Okay. Sir. You better stop before I start folding your laundry by hand
-

We leave Jersey behind and glide into Manhattan. Sergio maneuvers through the streets like he's done this a hundred times—smooth, quiet, focused. The city lights flash against the windows like paparazzi bulbs.

We arrive at Chexmate. Valet out front. Everyone's dripping designer. The smell of grilled steak hangs heavy in the air like it's its own perfume.

Inside, we don't even stop at the hostess stand—Sergio just gives a nod, and they wave us right in. Upstairs, we're seated at a corner table with a killer view of the river and skyline.

"Wow," I whisper, eyes wide.

"You're the view I came for," he replies, eyes locked on mine—the icy blue of them sharp, intense, like he's reading every thought before I can even think it.

Whew.

The server arrives. I start to order, but Sergio cuts me off smoothly.

"She'll have water with lemon. And bring us your best champagne."

"Yes, sir," the waitress stammers, practically sprinting off like she just served royalty.

I nudge him. "Why's she acting like you're Gotham's most wanted?"

He smiles, all mystery. "Let's just say I'm a man people don't cross twice."

Cute. Mysterious. Slightly threatening. Check, check, check.

We talk—about everything. He tells me about his brothers and their family construction business. Loud. Loyal. Wild.

Then his tone drops a little, softer. "My father died from lung cancer a few years ago. I had to step up—take care of my mom and my three younger brothers, and run the business. It's been... a lot."

I blink, caught off guard. "That's a lot to carry. Sorry, Sergio."

He shrugs but his eyes soften with something real—pain mixed with pride. "It's made me who I am. Family's everything. No matter what."

I open up too—about my sister, my wild nephews, and my dad, who died four years ago from a heart attack.

He nods thoughtfully. "I'm sorry for your loss."

His attention feels intense but not in a scary way. More like I'm the only person in the room.

We order. Ribeye, medium-well, garlic mash, asparagus. Sergio repeats it all to the waiter like he's already got me memorized.

We sip champagne—okay, I sip a little more than him. The bubbles get to me, and I feel a little tipsy and giggly. Warm and fuzzy, safe but dangerous.

By 11 p.m., we're still laughing.

"Wait, have you seen that episode of Love & Lies where the girl pretends to be her twin for six weeks to win her ex back?"

He chuckles. "No, but now I want to."

"This food is emotional," I say, chewing dramatically. "Like I'm about to cry."

He watches me like I'm a painting.

When the check comes, Sergio pulls out a sleek black Amex card, smooth as silk.

I grin and giggle, "Wow. Big money."

The waitress practically bows.

Outside, the breeze is sharper. We wait for the valet.

Sergio doesn't take off his coat, but gently pulls my cream-colored fur jacket closer around me with one hand—and with the other, he reaches out and holds my hand.

"You're full of surprises," I say, dazed.

"I plan to keep it that way," he murmurs, his blue eyes locked on mine again.

And right then... I realize I might be in trouble.
The good kind.
Or the very, very bad kind.