The Golden Boy

Detective Brian Miller was perfect.

He was six-foot-two, with blond hair that swept back perfectly and a smile that had won him three citations for community service. He held the door open for Elena at *Le Jardin*, the most exclusive French restaurant in Manhattan.

"I can't believe we got a reservation," Miller beamed, pulling out her chair. "Waitlist is usually six months."

"You must have pulled some strings," Elena smiled, adjusting her modest black dress. She felt pretty. Miller made her feel normal. Safe.

"I tried," Miller laughed. "But they called me this morning. Said they had a cancellation for the best table in the house."

Elena looked around. The restaurant was beautiful—candlelit, draped in ivy, smelling of butter and truffles.

But something was wrong.

The table next to them was empty. So was the one behind them. In fact, there was a ten-foot perimeter of empty tables around them.

A waiter appeared with a bottle of wine. "Compliments of the owner, Mademoiselle. A 1982 Château Margaux."

Elena froze. "The owner?"

"Yes. He purchased the establishment this afternoon."

Elena looked at the bottle. It cost more than her car. She looked up at the balcony overlooking the main dining floor.

In the shadows, a figure stood watching. He was wearing a black suit, standing with his hands in his pockets, motionless as a gargoyle.

Nico.

He had bought the restaurant. He had bought the restaurant just to watch her date.

"Wow," Miller said, eyeing the wine. "The owner must be a fan of the precinct. To the boys in blue!"

He raised his glass. Elena felt sick.

"I need to use the ladies' room," she said, standing up abruptly.

She marched through the dining room, past the kitchen, and found the back stairwell leading to the balcony. She stormed up the stairs, her heels clicking angrily on the marble.

Nico was leaning against the railing, smoking a cigarette. He didn't turn around when she approached.

"Is the wine to your liking?" he asked.

"You bought the restaurant?" Elena hissed, keeping her voice low. "Are you insane?"

"The health code violations were concerning," Nico shrugged, flicking ash onto the floor below. "I thought I'd clean it up."

"You're haunting me, Nico."

He turned then. His eyes were dark, burning with a restless energy. "I'm supervising. Miller chewed with his mouth open during the appetizer. Disgusting."

"He did not!"

"He did. And his tie is cheap."

"Why are you doing this?" Elena stepped closer, her anger vibrating in the small space. "You don't want me. You made that perfectly clear. So let me go."

Nico took a step toward her. He invaded her personal space, smelling of smoke and that expensive sandalwood cologne that haunted her dreams.

"I never said I didn't want you, Elena," he whispered, his voice rough. "I said I couldn't *have* you. There is a difference."

"That sounds like a cowardly distinction."

Nico’s eyes flashed. He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist. "Go back to your date, Elena. Enjoy your salad. But know that every bite you take, I bought it. Every minute you sit there, I’m allowing it."

"You don't own me, Nico."

"Don't I?"

He leaned in, his mouth inches from hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him. If he kissed her now, she would burn the city down for him. She knew it. He knew it.

Then he pulled back.

"Go," he commanded. "Before I go down there and break his jaw for looking at your legs."

Elena turned and fled. She went back to the table, back to the smiling, perfect Detective Miller, but all she could taste was the ash and smoke of the man upstairs.