STEFANO RUSSO'S (NERO'S) POV
I checked my phone for the fifth time since I arrived at the restaurant in Los Angeles. Still no reply. The message I'd sent to Zoe hours ago just sat there, marked as read. I sighed and looked around.
The restaurant where I was sitted close to the window wasn't luxurious. It was modest, quiet, just enough privacy to talk without drawing too much attention. Bull had done a good job finding the spot. At the front, I could see my men pretending to be regular customers, blending in well enough to fool anyone who didn't know what to look for.
I glanced at the door again. Still no sign of her.
Part of me understood. If I were her, I wouldn't come rushing either — not after disappearing the way I did. The last time we spoke, the way her voice cracked over the phone still haunted me. She'd been hurt, confused… and she had every right to be.
