I ease off the wall, let the crowd fold around me, become what I need to be in rooms like this: a rumor. The orchestra slides into another classic. An orchestral arrangement of an old ‘90s dance record. It’s hysterical.
Laughter lifts and drops. A server nearly clips her shoulder with a tray; my hand is there before the crystal can kiss the floor. She glances sideways, curious, unafraid. My touch is gone before she can map it.
“Careful,” I murmur, more to myself than her.
The senator’s gaze sweeps the balcony, calculating votes like they’re bulletproof. He thinks his daughter is an asset. Wintervale thinks she’s a headline. I see something else. Something that’s awakening parts of me I thought were dead.
Shit.
That ain’t good.
Don’t get involved, I think to myself.
Sure.
I catch the flash of a camera from the mezzanine. Not press. Wrong lens, wrong cadence. Surveillance. Someone’s documenting patterns. My jaw ticks. I mark the angle, the exit, and the margin for error. If this is a message, I’ve already received it.
She reaches the center of the room, a perfect circle of light, and the crowd tilts toward her the way water finds a drain. She stands there like a dare, and I feel every old muscle memory wake up. Guard. Shield. Ruin what needs ruining. You can dress power in silk and satin, but it still tastes like blood when it breaks.
Someone to my left says my last name like a test. I don’t turn. I’ve got my eyes on the only thing that matters right now—her.
Because tonight Wintervale will raise crystal flutes to “peace.” And tomorrow, I’ll break every rule my family wrote to keep the senator’s daughter breathing, whether she wants my protection or not.
My uncle framed her as an assignment.
But she feels more like a choice.
And I don’t apologize for my choices.
Chapter 1
Blake
The footsteps don’t belong to security or some drunk hedge funder who got lost looking for a bathroom.
They belong to Domenic Riva.
I can tell by the cadence—unhurried, practiced, a man who’s learned the world will make space for him or pay for the mistake of not doing it fast enough.
He steps out onto the terrace in a coat that costs more than most cars in this town. The fabric doesn’t hide what he is—Silas’s smiling executioner. The guy who sends condolences with the same hands that were responsible for the funeral.
“Blake.” He says my name like it tastes good. It doesn’t. “Enjoying the view?”
I don’t shift. I don’t give him my full body. I angle just enough to keep Peyton in my peripheral and my hand a thought away from the Glock under my jacket.
“Private conversation, Dom.”
“Is it?” His mouth shapes a pleasant curve that never reaches his eyes. He’s worn that expression so often it’s set like concrete—harmless, empty, lethal underneath. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re monopolizing the senator’s daughter. People talk.”
“Let them.”
His gaze slides to Peyton. Calculating. Appraising. It’s the same look he gave a restaurant before it mysteriously lost its liquor license. The same look he gave a rival’s warehouse before it miraculously caught fire. This fucker has always been trouble.
“Ms. Quinn,” he says to her with a polite warmth that could cut a throat. “Your father’s looking for you. Something about a photo with the mayor.”
“My father can wait.” Peyton’s voice is even, but there’s steel under the silky tone.
Smart girl. She sees him for who he is.
