Sky knew something was wrong the second Luca smiled.
Not the nice kind of smile. The kind that felt like knives wrapped in velvet. The kind people wore right before they stabbed you in the back—or the front, depending on their level of flair.
He shifted slightly behind Day, trying not to look like he was hiding. Which, obviously, he was.
"This your new hobby, Day?" Luca asked. "Collecting pastries with a pulse?"
Day didn't answer. He didn't need to. His silence was louder than most people's shouting.
Luca laughed again and walked off, but the tension didn't leave. It just hovered in the air like smoke from a gun that hadn't been fired yet.
Sky leaned in. "I know you told me not to talk to anyone who looks like they've killed before, but you could have mentioned we were walking into a Bond villain convention."
"You shouldn't be here," Day said flatly.
Sky blinked. "You brought me."
"I shouldn't have."
There it was. Cold. Blunt. Typical Day.
Sky's stomach twisted. "Wow. Thanks. Great date."
Day didn't respond, just scanned the room like a sniper, all sharp eyes and locked jaw. Sky hated when he did that—treated everything like a battlefield and everyone like collateral damage.
"You can still leave," Day muttered. "Take the car. I'll cover for you."
Sky stared at him. "And what? Pretend none of this exists? Pretend you don't?"
A pause.
Then softer, "I make lemon tarts for a living, Day. I don't know how to lie to the cops or dodge bullets or decode death stares."
Day finally looked at him. Really looked.
"I know," he said quietly. "That's why I need you to get out before you have to learn."
But it was already too late.
Because Sky had heard the name "Moretti" before. On the news. In whispers. In stories no one dared to tell in full.
And now one of them knew his face.