Chapter 13 - The Night Amelia Chose Him
Romance did not begin with a kiss.
Not for Amelia.
It began with Vincent asking before entering rooms.
With him sending messages that said, Can I come by? instead of I’m coming.
With arguments he allowed to end without punishment.
With silence that did not become threatening.
They had known each other fourteen months when Vincent finally asked her to dinner.
Not a meeting.
Not a security discussion.
Not dinner at Castellano’s while Angela deliberately disappeared into the kitchen.
A date.
Amelia stared at him across the counter.
“You’re asking me out?”
“Yes.”
“You’re nervous.”
“No.”
“You adjusted your cufflinks three times.”
Vincent looked down.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No.”
His expression softened.
“I don’t.”
Her stomach did something inconvenient.
“Where?”
“You choose.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently I have a history of overplanning.”
She laughed.
They went to a tiny Italian restaurant in Queens where nobody knew the Castellano name.
Vincent wore no suit.
Amelia nearly turned around.
“What?”
“You own jeans?”
“One pair.”
“I need photographic evidence.”
“Absolutely not.”
Dinner lasted four hours.
They talked about things unrelated to murder.
Amelia’s mother.
Vincent’s disastrous attempt to study architecture before family obligation pulled him home.
Favorite movies.
Worst vacations.
Tony’s terrible singing.
For one evening, they were ordinary.
Amelia had forgotten how beautiful ordinary could be.
Outside her apartment afterward, Vincent stopped.
She knew what came next.
Her body did too.
The difference between wanting a kiss and fearing one became difficult to separate.
Vincent noticed.
“Good night, Amelia.”
She blinked.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to kiss me?”
“Do you want me to?”
She almost laughed.
“You ask everything now.”
“Occupational retraining.”
Amelia looked at his mouth.
Then his eyes.
“Yes.”
Vincent moved slowly.
No hand behind her neck.
No pulling.
Just enough time for her to change her mind.
She didn’t.
The kiss was soft.
Brief.
When he stepped away, Amelia caught his coat.
“That was barely a kiss.”
“You looked nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
“Then we stop.”
“I didn’t say stop.”
Vincent smiled.
“Communication is exhausting.”
She kissed him this time.
The second kiss lasted longer.
Not dramatic.
No fireworks.
No possessive grip.
Just warmth.
When Amelia entered her apartment afterward, she cried.
Not because anything went wrong.
Because nothing had.
That frightened her too.
Healing was strange.
Danger had become so familiar that kindness sometimes felt suspicious.
She spoke to a therapist every Thursday.
Vincent did too.
He refused to discuss it.
Angela announced this was the healthiest thing a Castellano male had done in a century.
Vincent banned her from commenting.
She ignored him.
Months passed.
Their relationship grew slowly.
Sometimes Amelia slept at Vincent’s house.
Sometimes she woke at three in the morning and went home.
He never asked her to explain.
Sometimes Vincent became too protective.
She told him.
He apologized.
Sometimes Amelia assumed a disagreement meant he would leave.
He stayed.
They learned one another without turning knowledge into weapons.
Then one night, everything nearly broke.
Vincent received an anonymous threat.
Someone connected to Salvatore’s old organization wanted revenge.
Vincent doubled security around Amelia without telling her.
She discovered a man following her from the diner.
Old fear exploded.
She confronted Vincent.
“You promised.”
“I know.”
“You promised nobody would follow me without telling me.”
“I know.”
“So why?”
“There was a threat.”
“And that makes lying acceptable?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Vincent’s voice rose.
“Because someone threatened to kill you!”
The room went still.
Amelia stepped back.
Vincent saw it immediately.
Not her anger.
Her fear.
His face changed.
He lowered his voice.
“I’m sorry.”
Amelia’s breathing remained shallow.
Vincent moved toward the door.
“I’m leaving.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because you need space.”
Part of her wanted him to stay.
Another part wanted to run.
The conflict made her furious.
“You don’t get to solve this by disappearing either.”
Vincent stopped.
“What do you want?”
Amelia laughed bitterly.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed.”
She sat.
Vincent remained standing across the room.
Finally Amelia said, “I need you to understand something.”
“I’m listening.”
“When Raymond said he was protecting me, what he meant was he was taking choices away.”
Vincent nodded.
“I know.”
“No. You understand it intellectually.”
She pressed a hand against her chest.
“My body doesn’t care whether your reason is better.”
That hurt him.
She could see it.
Good.
Not because she wanted him hurt.
Because truth sometimes needed weight.
“If somebody follows me without my knowledge, I am back there.”
Vincent sat across from her.
“What should I have done?”
“Told me.”
“And if you refused security?”
“Then we discuss it.”
“And if you still refused?”
Amelia looked at him.
“You decide whether you can be with someone who makes choices you hate.”
His expression tightened.
“But you don’t remove my choice.”
Silence.
Then Vincent nodded.
“You’re right.”
The next morning he dismissed the secret protection.
Amelia agreed voluntarily to visible security until the threat was resolved.
Same outcome.
Completely different meaning.
Three weeks later police arrested the man responsible.
No violence.
No retaliation.
That evening Vincent and Amelia sat on the diner roof watching Brooklyn lights.
“You know what scares me?” Vincent asked.
“What?”
“I used to think becoming different meant becoming weak.”
“And now?”
“I think doing what I already know how to do is easier.”
Amelia leaned against him.
“Violence?”
“Control.”
She understood.
Vincent looked at her.
“I love you.”
Her heart stopped.
He did not ask for an answer.
Did not fill the silence.
Did not repeat it.
Amelia’s eyes filled.
“You planned this?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Your plans are terrible.”
He laughed.
She touched his face.
“I love you too.”
May you like
The words did not feel like surrender.
That was how she knew they were true.
