"I'm not worried. If they dare to so much as breathe in her direction, I'll unleash a show they will never forget. One that ends with them on their knees, begging for the mercy I won't give."
CHAPTER 27
NIKKI
Isuck in a deep breath as Rafe's personal stylist, a tiny Italian woman with a frighteningly strong grip, checks my dress in the limousine one last time for tonight’s event. The stunning dress is liquid gold made of silk. Backless, sleeveless, and slit so high up my leg that I keep catching Enzo glaring at my legs like they're a security breach waiting to happen.
Let them all be offended.
Because tonight, I’m not just another girl in a pretty dress. I’m a fucking weapon. A target for Scorpione Nero. A test for Rafe. On a very public stage where one wrong move might get me killed.
This isn't Nikki Ricci, the girl who vlogs her coffee order.
This is Nikki Ricci, the target.
I'm the main event tonight and I'm terrified, but also, impossibly, electrified.
We slide out of the limousine onto the red carpet. The crowd erupts around us, a blinding, deafening cacophony of flashes and shouts. Paparazzi scream our names. Influencers shriek, jostling for position, phones held high to capture the moment. Someone from Vogue Italia, or a very enthusiastic fan, yells, "Are you really engaged?!"
It's chaos.
Pure, unadulterated, glorious chaos. The kind I thrive on.
Rafe keeps a hand on my waist. Steady. Possessive. His fingers dig in just a little, a silent warning, a constant reminder of his presence. He leans in, lips brushing my ear like a lover, his voice a low rumble that only I can hear. "Smile, Nikki. For them. Show them everything they want to see."
I smile. It's wide, dazzling, perfect for the cameras. It's a lie. But it feels real enough to fool the world. And maybe, just maybe, it feels real enough to fool me.
We make our way inside the Black Hall, flanked by security disguised as stylists and handlers, their earpieces discreet, their eyes constantly scanning. My heels click against the polished marble floor. The air inside the gala's thick with the scent of expensive perfume and anticipation. There's flowing champagne and a constant soft hum of high society gossip.
But underneath it all, I feel something else. As if everyone’s holding their breath, waiting. And I know, with a chilling certainty, that I'm the reason.
"Do you spot anyone we should be worried about?" I ask, my eyes sweeping the room, trying to appear casual. I see faces I recognize from social media, celebrities, fashionistas, people who usually only exist behind a screen. No one who seems to have a reason to harm me.
Rafe nods slightly toward the far balcony, a subtle movement of his head. My eyes dart there. Two men. Suits too crisp for a party. Eyes too still, too watchful.
“Who are they?” I fake wave at an invisible friend across the room.
“Scorpione Nero’s men,” Rafe whispers into my ear. “They’re watching us. Waiting to see if I flinch. If I let you go even once without a guard.”
They're here.
And they're watching me.
We mingle with the crowd and smile. Pose for another photo with a minor European dignitary, whose eyes linger a little too long on my boobs. Rafe's grip tightens on my waist, a silent warning to the man, a reminder of who I belong to now.
I play the part, leaning into Rafe, pressing my chest against his arm, a perfect picture of a woman completely in love.
And then it happens.
Not loud. Not flashy. Not with a bang or a shout.
Just a man brushing past me too close, a casual, almost accidental movement in the crowd. His hand slips low, tracing the bare skin of my back, lingering just above my hip. A cold dread washes over me. He's too close, too familiar.
It's not a polite brush, it’s a deliberate touch.
The kind of touch no man would dare make unless it was intentional.
And suddenly Rafe's gone from my side and he's on the guy. A blur of black suit and sudden, brutal violence. He shoves him into a wall with a grunt that sounds more animal than human, a raw, guttural sound ripped from his throat.
