Chapter 1 - The Word “Yet”
My father’s tailor shop on Fourth Street had been dying long before Noah Moretti walked through its door.
Three months of unpaid rent sat beneath the register in envelopes my father pretended not to see. The heater coughed every morning like an old smoker. Two ceiling lights had burned out, and we had stopped replacing them because every dollar mattered.
Moretti Tailoring had once meant something in our neighborhood—not because we were related to those Morettis, as my father liked to clarify, but because my grandfather could make a man look wealthy even when his pockets were empty.
Now most men bought suits online.
Craftsmanship had become a luxury.
And we were running out of time.
So when Noah Moretti entered our shop on a rainy Thursday afternoon and asked for a custom three-piece suit, I didn’t care about the whispers attached to his name.
I cared that his order might keep our doors open.
Everyone in New York seemed to know something about Noah.
Some said he owned half the nightclubs in Manhattan.
Others claimed politicians returned his calls faster than they returned their wives’.
My father had only one rule concerning people like him.
“Be polite, Sofia. Do the work. Ask nothing.”
That was exactly what I intended to do.
Until Noah started asking questions.
“Arms up,” I told him.
He obeyed.
That surprised me.
Men like Noah Moretti didn’t look like they obeyed anyone.
He stood on the fitting platform wearing a black shirt beneath an expensive coat still darkened by rain. He was tall enough that I had to use the old wooden stool when measuring his shoulders.
His dark hair looked almost black beneath the shop lights. His expression remained calm, but it was the kind of calm that made you wonder what happened when it disappeared.
Near the entrance stood his bodyguard.
Paulie.
He hadn’t introduced himself. Noah had simply said his name once, and I’d remembered it.
Paulie looked like someone who had spent his entire adult life standing behind dangerous men.
I wrapped the measuring tape around Noah’s chest.
“Forty-four,” I murmured.
Noah watched me through the mirror.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m working.”
“Most people talk when they’re nervous.”
I tightened the tape slightly.
“Who said I’m nervous?”
Paulie coughed suspiciously from the doorway.
I glanced toward him.
“Something funny?”
“No, ma’am.”
Noah’s mouth twitched.
Almost a smile.
That should have been my first warning.
I moved lower to measure Noah’s waist.
That was when my fingers brushed something hard beneath his jacket.
Metal.
I froze.
Noah’s eyes met mine in the mirror.
I knew immediately what it was.
He knew that I knew.
Neither of us said anything.
I simply continued measuring.
That seemed to interest him.
“You’re not going to ask?”
“My father taught me never to ask customers what they keep in their pockets.”
“It isn’t in my pocket.”
“Then he definitely taught me not to ask.”
This time Noah actually smiled.
Paulie stared at me as though I had just walked across a freeway blindfolded.
I stepped onto the wooden stool.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You moved.”
“I breathed.”
“Try doing less of that.”
Paulie turned away.
His shoulders shook.
Noah slowly looked toward him.
Paulie instantly stopped laughing.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Maybe I was nervous.
Maybe sarcasm was simply how I handled fear.
Either way, something strange happened during that fitting.
Noah relaxed.
Not completely.
A man like him probably never relaxed completely.
But the invisible wall surrounding him seemed to lower by an inch.
I leaned closer and marked his shoulder with white tailor’s chalk.
His face was only inches from mine.
Suddenly I became very aware of how close we were.
His cologne.
His breathing.
The dark eyes watching my reflection instead of the measuring tape.
I stepped back.
That was when he asked the question.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
My chalk stopped in midair.
Behind us, Paulie went completely still.
I looked at Noah through the mirror.
“What?”
“A boyfriend.”
“I heard you.”
“Then why are you asking what?”
“Because I'm wondering why my customer needs to know.”
His expression remained unreadable.
“Curiosity.”
“Curiosity is expensive.”
“How expensive?”
I almost smiled.
“More than the suit.”
“I can afford it.”
That answer came too quickly.
I should have changed the subject.
Instead, I said, “No.”
Something shifted in his face.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But it was there.
Satisfaction.
And because apparently I had been born without the instinct necessary for surviving encounters with powerful men, I added:
“Not yet.”
Snap.
Noah’s gold lighter slammed shut.
The sound echoed through the shop.
Paulie stopped chewing his gum.
From the back room came absolute silence.
My father had definitely heard everything.
Noah turned toward me.
“What does that mean?”
His voice had changed.
It was quieter now.
“Excuse me?”
“Not yet.”
I stepped down from the stool.
“It means I don't have a boyfriend yet.”
“So there’s someone?”
“No.”
“Someone interested?”
“I have no idea.”
“Someone asking you out?”
I stared at him.
“Are you seriously interrogating your tailor?”
“I’m asking questions.”
“Very strange questions.”
He stepped off the platform.
Suddenly the difference in our height felt considerably more noticeable.
“Who?”
I blinked.
“Who what?”
“Who is trying?”
I almost laughed.
“You cannot possibly care.”
Noah said nothing.
And somehow his silence answered me.
Paulie found the ceiling fascinating.
My father remained hidden in the back.
Outside, rain streaked the shop windows.
I folded my arms.
“Why do you care?”
For several seconds Noah simply looked at me.
Then he moved closer.
Not threateningly.
That somehow made it worse.
He leaned down until only I could hear him.
“When a woman tells me she doesn’t have a man yet,” he murmured, “I start wondering who she expects to become that man.”
My heart stumbled.
“And?”
His eyes briefly dropped toward my lips.
“And I discovered I don’t like wondering.”
I forgot how to breathe.
Noah stepped away as though nothing unusual had happened.
“When will the suit be ready?”
“Next Thursday.”
“I’ll come Wednesday.”
“That isn't how Thursday works.”
Another faint smile.
“Wednesday, Sofia.”
Then he walked toward the door.
Paulie followed him but stopped beside me.
He lowered his voice.
“I've worked for him eleven years.”
I looked at him.
“And?”
“I have never seen him ask a woman if she has a boyfriend.”
Before I could respond, Noah called from outside.
“Paulie.”
“Coming, boss.”
Paulie disappeared.
I stood motionless.
My father emerged from the back room approximately five seconds later.
He looked through the window until Noah’s black car disappeared.
Then he turned to me.
“What did you do?”
“Why does everyone assume I did something?”
“Because Noah Moretti smiled.”
“So?”
“I've lived in this city sixty-two years. I've never heard anyone describe Noah Moretti smiling.”
I rolled my eyes and began gathering the measuring tape.
“He's a customer.”
My father didn't answer.
“Papa.”
Still nothing.
I looked up.
His face had changed.
Not fear exactly.
Recognition.
He was staring at the order slip where I had written Noah’s name.
“Papa?”
He took the paper from my hand.
“Noah Moretti.”
“Yes. We established that.”
My father whispered something in Italian.
“What?”
He looked toward the door.
“You stay away from that man.”
“He's buying a suit.”
“I mean after the suit.”
“There is no after the suit.”
My father finally looked at me.
“You don't understand men like Noah.”
“And you do?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
My father went silent.
That silence bothered me.
“Papa?”
He folded the order slip.
“You finish the suit. He pays. That's the end.”
Then he returned to the back room.
I watched him leave.
Something about his reaction didn't make sense.
But I had bills to worry about.
So I ignored it.
That evening, after closing the shop, I found an envelope beneath the door.
No stamp.
No name.
Inside was enough cash to cover three months of rent.
Every dollar we owed.
I stared at it.
There was only one other thing inside.
A small card.
Five words were written across it.
For the suit. Nothing else. — N
I should have been relieved.
Instead, I became angry.
The next morning I called the number on Noah’s order form.
He answered after one ring.
“Sofia.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I hoped.”
My stomach did something irritating.
I ignored it.
“You overpaid.”
“How much?”
“About six thousand dollars.”
“Then keep it.”
“No.”
Silence.
People probably didn't tell Noah Moretti no very often.
“I'll return the difference Wednesday.”
“You need it.”
That stopped me.
“How would you know?”
“Your landlord isn't subtle.”
Coldness moved through me.
“You investigated us?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“I noticed the notices beneath the register.”
I remembered them.
Barely visible.
He had seen them.
“I don't accept charity.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then what do you call six thousand dollars?”
“An advance.”
“For what?”
There was a pause.
“Future suits.”
I almost laughed.
“How many suits are you planning to order?”
“As many as necessary.”
“To do what?”
His answer came quietly.
“Keep seeing my tailor.”
Before I could respond, the line went dead.
For the rest of the day, I told myself it meant nothing.
Noah was flirting.
That was all.
A dangerous man amused by a woman who wasn't afraid enough of him.
Wednesday arrived.
At exactly four o'clock, the bell above our door rang.
Noah entered.
But he wasn't alone.
Paulie followed.
Then another man.
Then another.
Four men altogether.
My eyes widened.
“What is this?”
Noah removed his coat.
“My crew needs suits.”
Paulie smiled.
“Apparently we all developed an emergency interest in tailoring.”
I looked at Noah.
He looked completely innocent.
“You're unbelievable.”
“So I've been told.”
For the next hour, the shop transformed.
My father measured Paulie while I adjusted Noah’s jacket.
For the first time in months, laughter filled the room.
Even Papa eventually smiled.
Then the door opened.
A young man entered carrying flowers.
“Hey, Sofia.”
I turned.
Daniel.
He worked at the café across the street.
He had been asking me to dinner for approximately six months.
“Daniel?”
He held out the flowers.
“I thought I'd try again.”
The room became silent.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
I closed my eyes.
Oh no.
Daniel noticed Noah.
Then Paulie.
Then the other men.
His confidence visibly evaporated.
“These are for you,” he said.
“Thank you.”
I accepted them.
Behind me came a soft metallic click.
Snap.
The lighter.
I slowly turned.
Noah stood perfectly still.
His expression unreadable.
Paulie whispered to the man beside him.
“Here we go.”
Daniel cleared his throat.
“So... dinner Friday?”
Before I could answer, Noah spoke.
“She’s busy.”
My jaw dropped.
Daniel looked at me.
“Are you?”
I looked directly at Noah.
“No.”
Noah’s jaw tightened.
“Then Friday?” Daniel asked.
I knew exactly what I was doing.
Maybe it was childish.
Maybe reckless.
But nobody controlled my life.
Not even Noah Moretti.
“Friday sounds good.”
Daniel smiled.
“Seven?”
“Seven.”
He left.
The moment the door closed, I placed the flowers on the counter.
Noah stared at them.
Then at me.
“You said there was nobody.”
“There wasn't.”
“There is now.”
“One dinner doesn't make him my boyfriend.”
“Good.”
The word came instantly.
I stared at him.
“You have absolutely no right to be jealous.”
“I know.”
That answer surprised me.
Noah walked toward me.
“I don't have the right.”
For once there was no teasing in his voice.
No power.
No arrogance.
Only an uncomfortable honesty.
“But that doesn't mean I'm not.”
My anger weakened.
He looked toward the flowers.
“Go to dinner.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Go.”
“You just tried to answer for me.”
“I made a mistake.”
Paulie looked stunned.
Apparently Noah Moretti admitting mistakes was another historic event.
Noah picked up his coat.
“But before you decide whether you want a second dinner with him, have one with me.”
My pulse jumped.
“Are you asking me out?”
“Yes.”
“Like a normal person?”
His eyebrow rose.
“I can try.”
I smiled despite myself.
“When?”
“Saturday.”
“And if I say no?”
“I'll pick up my suit and never ask again.”
That answer changed everything.
Because he meant it.
The dangerous man everyone feared was giving me something I hadn't expected.
A choice.
I looked into his eyes.
“Saturday.”
His expression softened.
Then the bell above the shop door rang again.
An older man entered.
Gray coat.
Silver hair.
He looked at Noah.
Then at my father.
Papa went pale.
The stranger's gaze finally landed on me.
His expression changed.
Shock.
He whispered one word.
“Impossible.”
Noah immediately moved between us.
“Who are you?”
The stranger ignored him.
He stared at me as though he'd seen a ghost.
Then he looked toward my father.
“You never told her?”
My father's hands began trembling.
“Told me what?”
Nobody answered.
“Papa?”
The stranger reached into his coat.
Noah’s men instantly tensed.
“Slowly,” Noah warned.
The stranger removed no weapon.
Only an old photograph.
He placed it on the counter.
I looked down.
The picture had been taken outside our tailor shop nearly twenty-five years earlier.
My father stood beside a beautiful young woman I recognized immediately.
My mother.
She had died when I was a baby.
But there was another man in the photograph.
Young.
Dark-haired.
Powerful-looking.
Standing beside my mother with one hand protectively resting on her shoulder.
I looked at Noah.
Then back at the photograph.
The resemblance was impossible to miss.
“No,” my father whispered.
Noah picked up the photograph.
For the first time since I had met him, his composure vanished.
Because the man standing beside my mother wasn't a stranger.
It was Noah’s father.
May you like
And written on the back, in my mother's handwriting, were seven words that would change both our lives:
If anything happens, tell Sofia the truth.
