Stolen Glances Novels & Stories

EMMA'S POV Loving and deadly stares. Stares that eat up the soul but does not consume. Glances that make the butterflies in my belly flutter furiously. These are the words to explain how his brown pupils stare at me every time we get a chance to talk or seat side by side.

Marceline divulged, speaking like a true gossip. When April Rose looked back to steal one more glance at Conall, the guy was already looking over at her, his eyes glaring fiercely. A rush of familiarity swiftly engulfed her, and she immediately looked away, not because she was caught stealing a glance but because the guy looked like someone she had already met before.

Even when he wasn’t directly speaking to me, I could feel his gaze on me, a silent, assessing look that made my skin prickle. He maintained a professional demeanor, his questions sharp and insightful, his tone polite but distant. Yet, there were undercurrents in his interactions, subtle shifts in his gaze, a lingering moment of eye contact that sent a jolt of awareness through me. It was as if there was a secret language passing between us, a silent acknowledgment of the stolen moments in the club, a dangerous secret that hung heavy in the air.

“Woman?” Duke shifts his attention back to the photo in his hand. With his eyes narrowed, he peered at the lady in the picture. There’s no doubt about it. She looks just like the woman who almost got hit by a car earlier, except that this woman looks more refined and sophisticated – more like a real lady. He puts the thumb of his free hand just below his chin, trying to think. “Probably not, we were quite far, after all,” he nods, convincing himself that he’s mistaken, and oblivious to the fact that he’s been thinking out loud.

He quickly cleared his throat. “I am in the bathroom.” The other person was about to open when they heard his voice. “Sorry sir I didn’t know it was occupied.” It was one of the junior workers and his voice was shaking from fear. I was relieved my momentum was distu…….. I didn’t finish that as his finger went deep inside. He was not even scared we were almost caught. “How are you calm?” “They are called stolen moments for this reason. The adrenaline, the zeal and anticipation should feel like this.”

On my tenth birthday, my parents, the Don of the Falcone family and his wife, were murdered in a targeted hit. Because they took a sudden detour to pick up my custom birthday gift, they drove right into a rival syndicate's fatal ambush. My brother, Vincenzo, blamed my childish demands for their deaths. When Vincenzo took over as the new Don, his first act was to banish me to a remote convent to do hard labor. For eight whole years, he never visited me once. When I died on the operating table in the family hospital, he was standing guard right next door. He was watching his adopted sister, Lucia, get a heart transplant. He had saved her from a street shootout years ago. Just before I

"Don't be naive. Wall Street is not a place where a miner's-town girl changes the rules with pretty speeches. My family has roots here. Networks, funds, board seats. You can't pick those up by having dinner with the right men a few times." I listened quietly. Under that elegant face, what had been hidden for fifty years finally showed itself. A stolen name, a stolen identity, a stolen life, and still the same arrogance. She was not Grace Walker. Grace Walker was my grandmother, who had died with her eyes open, still whispering the name of the man who had promised to come back. I tightened my palm and kept my voice cold. "Are you done? Mrs. Hale, the result will not change. Please leave."

At every glance at him, I could see myself drooling at his feet. I could see the smile playing on his lips as his stolen glances intensified. He fixed his gaze on me as if wanting me, but I ignored him. He looked like sweet poison, one that would slowly affect every organ in my body, and it made me curious, if indeed he was poison, of what kind would he be? .... The man's gaze was getting too intense, making me uncomfortable. I quickly excuse myself to the restroom. Holding my phone in one hand, I glance at my reflection after washing my hands.

His baseball cap was pulled low, obscuring his face, but I could feel his eyes—dark, still as a bottomless lake—locked onto me. He tilted his head slightly. His cold gaze didn't just linger on the torn fabric of my shoulder from the collision with Chris; it drifted slowly down to my hand—where the stiletto had just stepped. My skin was rapidly regenerating, the scraped flesh knitting itself back together, returning to a flawless, smooth state.

"Softer, huh? Careful. I might start liking this version of you. The one who shares consomé and doesn't growl at every guy who glances my way." The mention of *glancing*—casual, tossed like a pebble into still water—rippled through me, stirring the silt I'd thought settled. Alex. Always Alex, lurking in the subtext like a half-erased pencil line. I released her hand slowly, leaning back to buy a breath, my gaze drifting to the food truck where the vendor was wiping down the counter, his mustache twitching with a yawn. The undergrads had dispersed, leaving behind crumpled napkins and the ghost of laughter, the air cooling now to that crisp edge that promised autumn's bite. "Not growling," I s