Mara pov
He moved slowly, a small wince crossing his face as he buckled his seatbelt. I wanted to ask him if his shoulder was hurting, but I bit my tongue, I shouldn't care.
The drive was long and quiet. We left the city behind, heading toward the flatter, darker outskirts where the streetlights were far apart. I watched the trees blur past, my heart thumping a steady, nervous rhythm.
"Where are we going, Lorenzo? This doesn't look like a restaurant district."
"It's a private spot," he said, turning onto a dirt road. "Somewhere people don't go unless they're invited."
He pulled up to a large, fenced in lot. In the middle of the grass sat a massive, old airplane. It looked like it had been there for decades, but it was polished, and warm golden light was spilling out of the small porthole windows.
"A plane?" I blinked, staring at the fuselage.
"It's a cafe built inside an old airliner," he explained, killing the engine. "The food is better than anything you'll find downtown, and the privacy is absolute. No prying eyes, no interruptions."
Inside, the plane had been gutted and turned into a luxury dining room. The floor was covered in dark carpet, and the seats were plush leather booths. Two men in crisp white uniforms bowed as we entered.
"Good evening, Mr. Moretti," one of them said. They didn't even look at me, but they led us to a booth right at the front, near the cockpit window.
We sat down, and the silence of the field outside pressed in on us. It felt like we were in a glass cage, suspended in the middle of nowhere.
"Order whatever you want," Lorenzo said, handing me a menu. "The seafood is fresh."
"I'm not really hungry," I said, though my stomach gave a small, traitorous growl.
"Eat, Mara. You don't have to be shy."
We ordered, and for the first ten minutes, we just sat there. I picked at the fish on the table, trying to think of something to say that wasn't a lie. Lorenzo watched me, his eyes dark and unreadable. He looked calm, but there was a tension in his jaw that told me he wasn't just here for the pasta.
"So," he said, leaning back as the waiter set down our drinks. "Tell me about this friend of yours. The one from school."
My heart did a slow, heavy thud. "I told you. She's just a girl. We used to study in the library together. She's been having a hard time, so I wanted to check on her."
"A girl," Lorenzo repeated. He took a slow sip of his wine. "That's funny. Because my people have very good cameras."
He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small envelope. He slid it across the table toward me.
I didn't want to open it because I knew what was inside. But I couldn't just sit there, I opened the flap and pulled out three glossy photos.
My breath hitched. The first one was of me walking into the park. The second was of me sitting on the bench, leaning close to David.
The third was the worst it showed me holding David's hand, my face full of an emotion I never showed Lorenzo.
"She looks remarkably like a boy named David," Lorenzo said. He didn't sound angry. He actually sounded amused.
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Lorenzo, I can explain—"