He gets out first and offers me his hand. I’m about to ignore it, but he grabs my palm and pulls me out. We step into the restaurant, and the guards remain outside in the car.

The inside of the restaurant is as cozy as the exterior. The soft yellow lighting casts a warm hue on the red banquettes. The tables are dark wood and there are multiple creative quotes about eating for the soul hanging on the walls. A few people are scattered throughout, chatting joyfully. I wonder if they’ll help me if I say the man holding my clammy hand is a serial killer or if they will be killed themselves.

The stranger, Adrian, leads me to a back table that’s separate from other people and away from doors and windows. I realize it’s on purpose when he pushes me to the end of the booth that’s near the wall.

He settles opposite me, and when the waiter comes, he doesn’t even touch the menu as he says, “An unopened bottle of your best wine.”

“Salad,” I whisper, opting not to check the menu myself. The sooner I’m out of here, the better.

“What type, miss?”

“The simplest one you have.”

The waiter nods and leaves.

I’m acutely aware of Adrian watching me, his fingers casually interlaced on the table. They’re lean, masculine, and have veins etched across the surface.

And now I’m ogling them.

I can’t believe I’m ogling the same fingers that held a gun to my forehead. Or maybe I’m watching them because of that fact. I know people like him exist, but I’ve always wondered how they could so easily end lives. Do they not feel, or have they become desensitized to it like I have to haters?

However, when I had that question, I never thought I’d ever be this close to one of his kind.

Adrian taps his finger once against the wooden surface. “You have an expressive face. Did you know that, Lia?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Maybe it’s not visible to others, but it’s almost impossible for you to hide your emotions.”

“Is that why you brought me here? To tell me I have an expressive face?”

“I told you why I brought you here. To talk.”

“Then talk.”

“I would rather you do the talking. Tell me more about yourself.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because it’ll determine whether you get to walk out of this restaurant breathing or not.”

My chest jolts and I bunch a napkin in my fists to stop my hands from shaking. “Why are you doing this? You already let me go.”

The dark depth of his gray eyes is similar to deep cloudy skies—blank, composed, and cold. “I only let you go until further notice. Now is the time for that notice. Are you going to tell me about yourself?”

There’s no winning with this asshole, is there? He’s already come with a purpose and he won’t stop until it’s met.

“What do you want to know?” I snap so he’ll get it over with and let me go.

“I don’t want to know anything in that tone. Repeat the question without the anger part.”

“Do you enjoy this?”

“What?”

“Being the Grim Reaper over others’ lives.”

“Not if I can help it, no. Being the Grim Reaper doesn’t actually give me answers…just bodies.”

A lump rises in my throat and I stiffen at his unspoken threat.

The waiter returns with a bottle of wine and my salad. Adrian motions at him to leave when he opts to open the bottle.

As soon as the waiter is gone, he does it with sure movements. He doesn’t hurry or get flustered, like a typical person who’s confident about himself and his surroundings. While I’m usually the same in my own world, I seem to lose all my confidence in his company.

Being held at gunpoint will do that, I guess.

Adrian pours me a glass and one for himself, and although I wasn’t planning on drinking, I need some liquid courage right now.

I take a long sip, then sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s your last name?”

“I’m sure you could’ve figured it out on your own. It’s all over the rehearsal hall.”

“Or I could easily run a background check on you to find out everything.”

My head tips up at that. He’s telling me without stating it that he’s powerful enough to figure out whatever he wants about me.

I take another sip of wine. “Does that mean you haven’t already?”

“It wouldn’t make a difference to you whether I have or not.”

“Of course it would.”

“No, it wouldn’t. It makes a difference to me because I would acquire information. You, however, have nothing to lose or gain.”

“I have everything to lose with you.”

He taps his forefinger against the table, lips twitching, but like the other time, he doesn’t smile. “You’re smart enough to recognize that. Continue being smart and answer my question.”

“Morelli.” I stab my fork into the salad and bring it to my mouth, chewing with aggressiveness.

“Lia Morelli. Were you born in the States or in Italy?”

“Italy.”

“Both parents Italian?”

“Mom was American. Dad was Italian.”

“Both dead?”

“Yes,” I snap, gulping what remains in the glass in one go. “Is your questioning over?”

“That’s one.” He takes a leisurely sip of his wine.

“One?”

“One strike. I told you not to speak to me in that tone.”

“What tone should I speak in then? Is there a fucking manual on how to talk to a murderer?” I hiss the last word under my breath.

“Two. And while there’s no manual, you ought to use that clever head of yours and not provoke me.”

I snatch the bottle and pour until the glass almost overflows. Some surrounding tables gawk at my lack of manners, but I’m past the point of caring. I’m fuming, and the more he probes about my past, the faster the wounds I’ve kept hidden sting, ripping at the stitches so I’ll set them free.

“How did your parents die?” he asks ever so languidly, obviously not reading my mood. Or maybe he asks in spite of it.

He’s probably taking pleasure in this.

Sighing, I say, “An accident.”