Chapter 3 — Dinner, Lies, and First Impressions
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The rain had no mercy that night.
New York was glowing under streetlights, slick pavements reflecting the golden hue of passing cars. The kind of night where everything felt cinematic—too pretty, too quiet, like something was about to happen.
Inside Caffè Verona, Ava sat across from Lorenzo DeLuca, a man who could make silence sound expensive.
He stirred his espresso slowly, the faint clink of his spoon against porcelain echoing through the empty café. His eyes, impossibly dark and calm, stayed fixed on her.
Ava crossed her legs, leaning back. "You know, most people find small talk comforting. You're giving me the 'interview before the kidnapping' vibe."
Lorenzo's lips curved faintly. "Would you prefer I talk about the weather?"
"I'd prefer if you didn't look at me like you're solving a puzzle."
He smiled at that—just a small one. "Maybe I am."
"Newsflash," she said, sipping her latte, "I'm not a crossword, DeLuca."
"No," he replied, voice soft, "you're much more complicated than that."
Her heart tripped, just slightly. She hated that.
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"Tell me something, Ava," he said after a pause. "Why psychology?"
She blinked. "Why not?"
"Because it's a dangerous field," he said, tone thoughtful. "You learn how to read people, their motives, their lies. That can ruin a person's peace."
Ava tilted her head. "And yet you seem very peaceful."
That earned her another quiet chuckle. "Touché."
She leaned forward a little. "Maybe I study people because I like the challenge. You can learn everything about someone by how they talk, how they lie, how they smile."
"And what have you learned about me?"
Oh, he walked straight into that one.
Ava set her cup down, eyes glinting. "That you use charm as a distraction. You're observant, confident, and a little bit of a control freak. You hate when people surprise you. And—" she paused, smirking, "you think a well-timed smirk can hide what's actually going on behind those eyes."
For a moment, Lorenzo said nothing. The air between them thickened—not uncomfortable, just… electric.
Then, he leaned closer.
"So, you think you've figured me out?"
"Not yet," she said. "You're like a locked file."
He smiled slowly. "Some files are locked for a reason."
Ava matched his smile. "And some locks are just waiting for the right mind to open them."
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Just then, her phone buzzed. Serena's name flashed across the screen:
> Still alive? Or are you buried behind a café with a cappuccino in your hand?
Ava bit her lip to stop from laughing. Lorenzo noticed the twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"Something amusing?" he asked.
"My friend thinks you might be a serial killer."
He laughed—low, deep, and genuine. "And what do you think?"
"I think serial killers don't wear cufflinks that cost more than my rent."
"Ah," he said, leaning back, "so you're judging my innocence based on my wardrobe."
"Exactly. You're too well-dressed to commit murder. But maybe not too well-dressed to plan one."
He tilted his head, intrigued. "And you're too clever for your own safety."
She smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should," he said softly. "Not many people can make me laugh."
The way he said it—almost wistful—made her chest tighten.
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When the waiter arrived with their food, Ava realized she hadn't even looked at the menu.
Lorenzo had already ordered for both of them.
"Let me guess," she said, arching a brow. "You like control even in dinner choices."
"Or maybe," he replied smoothly, "I simply know what people will like before they do."
Ava picked up her fork, amused. "Then you're either psychic or a stalker."
"Would it help if I said I prefer the term 'strategic observer'?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "You really do talk like a movie villain."
"Depends on the movie," he said, eyes glinting. "Maybe I'm just misunderstood."
"Yeah," she said playfully. "All villains say that."
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By the time they finished, the rain had softened outside. Lorenzo walked her to the café door, umbrella in hand.
"You don't have to—"
"I insist," he said quietly. "It's not safe for a woman to walk alone this late."
Ava crossed her arms. "You're aware you sound exactly like the reason it's not safe, right?"
He laughed again, holding the umbrella out for her. "Then it's a good thing you're not afraid of me."
She stepped under the umbrella beside him, rain tapping above them. "Maybe I should be."
He looked at her then—really looked—and said softly,
"If you were afraid, it wouldn't be nearly as fun."
Her heart thudded once, hard.
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When he dropped her near her apartment building, she turned to thank him. But before she could, he handed her something small and silver.
Her pen.
The same one she'd left behind that morning at the café.
Except now, engraved faintly along the clip, were two letters: L.D.
She looked up, startled. "You—engraved it?"
He smiled. "So you remember who returned it."
Then he got back into the car and disappeared into the night—leaving her on the sidewalk, clutching a pen that suddenly felt heavier than it should.
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Inside her apartment, Ava sat on her bed, spinning the pen between her fingers. She opened her laptop, the file on Anonymous Profile #47 still glowing on-screen.
Her eyes caught the initials at the top corner of the report:
Subject L.D.
Her stomach dropped.
"Oh no," she whispered.
"Of course it's him."
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End of Chapter 3.
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