The Veal and the Bruise

Vittorio’s smelled of truffle oil, expensive perfume, and the desperate, cloying scent of expectation. It was Valentine’s Day in Manhattan, which meant the restaurant was packed tight with couples performing happiness for an audience of strangers.

Clara sat at table fourteen, a small two-top near the kitchen door. She had been sitting there for forty-five minutes.

She took a sip of her water, careful not to smudge her lipstick. It was a shade called 'Bloodline,' a deep, dark red that Nico liked because it made her look dangerous. Right now, she just felt exposed. She could feel the waiter’s eyes on her—a heavy, sympathetic gaze that burned the back of her neck. He had already refilled her water glass three times. He was probably wondering if she had been stood up.

She checked her reflection in the darkened window. Her blonde hair was blown out perfectly, her skin smoothed by foundation, but she could see the faint lines around her eyes that hadn't been there two years ago. She was thirty-four. In this city, in this life, thirty-four was the edge of a cliff.

The heavy oak door at the front of the restaurant swung open. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop.

Nico walked in.

He didn't look like the other men in the room. The finance bros and the lawyers were soft around the edges, wearing suits that cost money but lacked threat. Nico was sharp angles and kinetic energy. He wore a black suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone.

He didn't stop at the host stand. He walked straight to the table, his eyes scanning the room for threats before they even landed on her.

He pulled out the chair and sat down heavily. No kiss. No hello. No apology.

"You're late," Clara said, her voice tight.

"Traffic," Nico grunted. He picked up the menu, not looking at her. "And I had to handle a thing in Jersey."

Clara looked at his hands. They were large, manicured, and currently gripping the leather menu with unnecessary force. On his right hand, across the knuckles, the skin was split. The bruise was fresh, blooming purple and angry against the olive skin.

"You're bleeding," she whispered.

Nico glanced at his hand, then wiped the smear of blood onto the pristine white napkin. "It's nothing. Don't start."

"It's Valentine's Day, Nico."

"I'm here, aren't I?" He finally looked at her. His eyes were dark, devoid of warmth. He scanned her dress—a silk slip dress that she had starved herself for three days to fit into.

"You look tired," he said.

The insult landed with the precision of a slap. Clara flinched internally, but she kept her face impassive. "I spent four hours getting ready."

"Dress is too tight," he critiqued, turning back to the menu. "Makes you look desperate. You should wear the black one. The one that covers more."

"I like this one."

"I pay for them, I tell you which ones I like." He signaled the waiter without looking up.

The waiter rushed over, relieved that the sad woman finally had a companion, even if the companion looked like he might flip the table. "Good evening, sir. Would you like to hear the specials?"

"No," Nico said. "Bring a bottle of the Barolo. The '18. We'll both have the veal scallopini."

"I don't like veal," Clara interjected softly. "I was going to have the branzino."

Nico handed the menu to the waiter. "She'll have the veal. And bring some bread. She looks like she needs to eat."

The waiter hesitated, looked at Clara’s frozen expression, and then nodded nervously. "Right away, sir."

As the waiter retreated, Nico’s hand slid under the table. He didn't take her hand. He gripped her thigh. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, hard enough to leave a mark. It wasn't a caress. It was a claim. It was a reminder of who owned the chair she was sitting in, the dress she was wearing, and the food she was about to eat.

"Stop pouting," Nico murmured, his thumb rubbing circles against her skin, the friction burning. "I hate it when you pout. It gives you wrinkles."

Clara stared at him. She hated him. She hated the way he chewed, she hated the violence radiating off him, and she hated the way he made her feel small. But as his hand moved higher, a treacherous heat coiled in her stomach. It wasn't love. It was adrenaline. It was the terrifying, intoxicating reality of being the only thing a shark wanted to bite.

"Did you hurt him?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The thing in Jersey?"

Nico smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Eat your veal, Clara."