The Hand Across the Table

A year after the verdict, Voss & Stone had six employees.

Natasha still did not understand how.

Miriam claimed it was because Natasha finally charged clients what her work was worth.

Elena claimed it was because half of Miami wanted the woman from the Castellano case to restore their buildings.

Natasha preferred Miriam’s explanation.

The first major project was a public library damaged by hurricane flooding.

On opening day, children ran across floors Natasha’s team had spent months repairing.

She stood near the entrance with plaster dust under one fingernail and felt something close to peace.

Matteo arrived late.

No bodyguards visible.

Dark suit.

No tie.

Scar through one eyebrow.

For a second, the sight of him across a room took her back to Marea.

Then he smiled.

Not the old careful smile.

A normal one.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I am.”

“Historic event.”

“I considered not coming.”

“Why?”

“I thought this was your day.”

“It is.”

He nodded.

“And I invited you.”

“Yes.”

“So try being a guest.”

“I have limited experience.”

“Learn.”

He did.

That evening, after the library emptied, they walked to the waterfront.

Matteo’s legal situation had resolved months earlier.

He pleaded guilty to financial crimes connected to older Rossi operations, received a sentence that included probation, substantial forfeitures, and cooperation conditions, and resigned from every company named in the case.

Some people called that lenient.

Others called it useful.

Natasha called it a consequence.

Not complete justice.

Not redemption.

A consequence.

“How is Elena?” he asked.

“You have her number.”

“She responds with invoices.”

“She likes you.”

“That is not what her invoices suggest.”

“She charges everyone.”

“Not Miriam.”

“No one charges Miriam.”

They walked in silence.

Matteo stopped near a railing.

“I sold the house.”

“Which one?”

“The one on Star Island.”

“You had a house on Star Island?”

“Yes.”

“That is disgusting.”

“I know.”

“Who bought it?”

“A hedge fund manager.”

“Worse.”

“I know.”

She laughed.

“What are you doing with the money?”

“Restitution fund.”

She stopped.

“For the patients?”

“And other victims tied to the businesses.”

“Court ordered?”

“Partly.”

“And the rest?”

“My choice.”

Natasha looked at the water.

“That’s good.”

“I am not telling you for praise.”

“Good, because I was not preparing any.”

He smiled.

Then became serious.

“There is something I want to ask.”

Natasha’s body tensed before her mind did.

Matteo noticed.

“We can walk first.”

“No. Ask.”

He took a breath.

“Dinner.”

She stared.

“That was dramatic for dinner.”

“I am out of practice.”

“Clearly.”

“Dinner with me.”

“We have eaten dinner.”

“Not like this.”

Natasha understood.

A date.

The word opened old rooms inside her.

Restaurants.

White tablecloths.

A hand under the table.

Smile.

People are looking.

Matteo saw the answer forming and looked away.

“It is fine.”

“I have not answered.”

“You don’t owe me—”

“Stop helping.”

He stopped.

Natasha breathed.

“Ask properly.”

He looked at her.

“Natasha Voss, would you like to have dinner with me Friday night?”

“No.”

He nodded.

“All right.”

She smiled.

“Saturday.”

Matteo blinked.

“What?”

“I can’t Friday.”

“You said no.”

“I did.”

“You enjoy this.”

“A little.”

He laughed.

“Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“Seven?”

“Six-thirty.”

“Restaurant?”

She thought about it.

“Not Marea.”

“Obviously.”

“Somewhere loud.”

“Why loud?”

“Because I spent six years in places where everyone whispered.”

Matteo considered.

“I know a Cuban place where the band makes conversation nearly impossible.”

“Perfect.”

“No private room.”

“Perfect.”

“No security at the table.”

She looked at him.

“You still need security.”

“Yes.”

“Nearby is fine.”

“Thank you.”

“That was not permission. It was logistics.”

“I am learning.”

Saturday night, Natasha chose her own dress.

That mattered.

Red.

Richard had hated red on her.

Too noticeable, he had once said.

Matteo picked her up but did not come upstairs.

He waited outside.

At the restaurant, the music was loud, the tables too close, the food excellent.

A waiter spilled water near Matteo’s sleeve.

Matteo moved his arm.

Nothing else happened.

Natasha noticed because once she would have watched Richard’s face for ten minutes afterward.

Matteo caught her watching.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Was I supposed to yell?”

“No.”

“Good. I did not prepare.”

She smiled.

Later, he reached for her hand across the table.

Then stopped.

Not dramatically.

Just before touching her.

He turned his palm upward.

The same gesture as Marea.

But everything was different.

No Richard.

No threat.

No rescue.

Just a question.

Natasha looked at his hand.

Then placed hers in it.

Not because she needed him to lead her away.

Because she wanted to stay.

On the drive home, Natasha realized she had not once wondered whether Matteo approved of her dress, her laugh, the restaurant, or the way she had interrupted him twice.

The absence of that calculation felt almost physical.