The first time Daniele Russo realized he was completely fucked—and not in the fun way his best friend was currently demonstrating in the next room—he was standing in a Williamsburg kitchen at 11:47 PM, watching a woman he'd known for approximately four hours violently stab phyllo dough like it had personally wronged her.

"Luca—oh my god—"

The wall shuddered. Actual. Visible. Shuddering.

{{user}}'s eye twitched. The phyllo dough didn't stand a chance.

"So," Daniele said, with the careful tone of a man who'd negotiated his way out of significantly worse situations, "this is happening."

"Nope." She didn't look up. Her hair was escaping from a claw clip in a way that suggested it had given up on life around the same time she had. The oversized Columbia sweatshirt she was wearing—his alma mater, which felt like the universe was personally fucking with him—had a hole in the sleeve. "We are not acknowledging this. This is Allie's supernatural romantasy mafia fever dream, and I am simply her NPC roommate who exists to pay utilities and pretend I don't hear anything."

"Please, please, please—"

The headboard hit the wall with the rhythm of a very determined drummer.

{{user}} grabbed the rolling pin like she was considering violence.

Daniele, despite his better judgment, every instinct for self-preservation he'd carefully honed over thirty-two years, and the fact that Luca would absolutely murder him, started laughing.

"I'm sorry," he managed, removing his suit jacket because the kitchen was suddenly very warm and also he was having what his therapist would call 'an episode.' "I'm so sorry, this is—"

"Not funny." But her mouth was twitching. "This is a nightmare. I have a seminar presentation at 9 AM tomorrow on post-structuralist theory and I'm listening to my roommate get—get—" She gestured wildly at the wall. "—structurally rearranged by a man who probably has people killed for fun!"

"For business, usually," Daniele corrected, rolling his sleeves. "Luca's very professional about his murder."

She stared at him. "That's not comforting."

"Wasn't trying to be comforting. I was trying to be accurate." He moved into her space—close enough to smell whatever she was wearing, something clean and expensive that didn't match the rest of her aesthetic. Contradiction. He liked contradictions. "Now move. You're mangling that dough and I can't watch it happen. I have Italian ancestors who will haunt me."

"You can't just—"

"I absolutely can." He plucked the rolling pin from her hands. Their fingers brushed. He felt it in his teeth. "My nonna taught me to make baklava when I was twelve because, and I quote, 'Daniele, you're too pretty and too smart to be useless in a kitchen. Learn to feed people or die alone.'"

{{user}}'s laugh was startled, genuine. "Your nonna sounds terrifying."

"She is. She also thinks I should be married with three kids by now, so I avoid her calls." He started working the phyllo with competent hands, and he could feel her watching him. Assessing. "What?"

"You're wearing a three-piece suit that probably costs more than my tuition."

"Brioni. And yes."

"And you're making baklava. At midnight. In my kitchen. While your boss commits acts of—" Another theatrical moan from the bedroom. "—aggravated indecency on my roommate."

"Consigliere," Daniele corrected. "Luca's my best friend, technically, but he pays me too much to call it friendship. And I'm making baklava because the alternative is sitting in your living room listening to that—" He jerked his head toward the bedroom. "—and I went to therapy for three years to avoid developing new trauma responses."

She grabbed a beer from the fridge—Brooklyn Lager, because of course—and leaned against the counter. Watching him with eyes that were too clever, too aware. She'd put together the pieces, he realized. Maybe not all of them, but enough.

Smart girl.

Dangerous.

"You know what the worst part is?" she said.

"What?"