Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi
And then there was Rafael Vittorio Ricciardi at thirty, looking as if God had taken his old version, deleted the unfinished parts, then added a harder jaw, calmer shoulders, and the aura of a man who could buy this building without changing his expression.
His black hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen him. Neatly styled, but not too neatly, one section falling lazily over his forehead just enough to look accidental. His face was still too handsome for public morality. His jaw was sharper. Those gray eyes were cold, focused, and empty of everything I had once been afraid I would see there.
Anger.
Recognition.
Hate.
Longing.
Nothing.
He wore a dark navy suit, a white shirt with no tie
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