Serafina was quiet at four in the afternoon.

The rain beat hard against the tall glass windows facing Madison Avenue.

The scent of warm truffles and garlic drifted from the kitchen, mixing with the damp air.

Lucia sat opposite me, her small fingers clutching a red crayon.

She was drawing a lopsided house on the back of the paper menu.

Her dark curls fell over her forehead, still damp from the storm outside.

Then the heavy oak door of the restaurant swung open.

A rush of cold, wet air swept into the dining room, making the candle flames flicker.

I froze, my hand stopping mid-air over my teacup.

Dominic Valenti walked in, shaking the water from his dark cashmere coat.

He looked exactly as he had five years ago, only sharper around the jaw.

His dark hair was slicked back, glittering with tiny drops of rain.

He stopped when he saw us sitting in his private corner booth.

His eyes went from me to the little girl beside me.

Lucia looked up, blinking.

She had his eyes—that impossible, striking shade of amber with flecks of gold.

Dominic walked over slowly, his leather shoes clicking on the polished marble floor.

He stopped at the edge of our table, his gaze locked on Lucia’s face.

The scent of rain and expensive cologne filled the space between us.

“Elena,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

“Dominic,” I replied, keeping my voice as even as I could.

He stared at the child, his chest rising and falling beneath his tailored suit.

“Who is she?” he asked.

His voice lacked its usual demanding edge; he sounded completely stunned.

Lucia dropped her crayon.

It rolled off the edge of the table and clicked against his polished shoe.

Dominic bent down, picked up the red wax cylinder, and held it out to her.

His large, calloused hand looked massive next to her tiny fingers as she took it.

“This is Lucia,” I said, wrapping my hand around her small shoulder.

“She is five years old.”

He took a step back, his face turning pale in the dim restaurant light.

“Five,” he whispered, doing the math in his head.