I balanced the silver tray precariously, my steps measured and careful as I navigated throughThe Gray'scrowded main floor. The crystal glasses clinked softly against each other. The dozen glasses of Macallan 25, three fingers each, I was currently stressing over, cost more than my monthly salary. Two weeks into this job and my palms still sweated whenever they handed me anything more expensive than water. One slip, one mistake, and I'd be back to working three jobs just to make ends meet.
The midnight rush was in full swing. Bodies pressed together on the sunken dance floor, moving like a single organism to the pulsing beat. I slipped between tables where rich and powerful people lounged in plush velvet booths, their conversations a constant murmur beneath the music. I recognized a couple of politicians, but I’d learned most of the people who didn’t want to be noticed always positioned themselves in the shadows. Theair smelled of expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and money. So much money.
"Careful, new girl," another server muttered as we passed each other. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. I'd learned quickly that kindness was a rare currency here. Two weeks. Fourteen days of memorizing drink orders, learning the private codes the staff used to identify VIPs, navigating the labyrinthine social hierarchy ofThe Gray. My feet ached in the required black heels, but I'd stopped noticing around day three. The tips were worth it. More than worth it. Last night alone, I'd made enough to cover half my back rent.
It always took me an hour or so for my nerves to settle. I was far enough into the evening now I’d figured out how to move with the crowd rather than against it. My gaze still wandered sometimes though, still caught on details that made my breath catch.The Graywas the most beautiful place I'd ever been. The restored bank building seemed to glow from within, its grandeur both intimidating and mesmerizing.
The chandeliers above cast amber light across the black marble floor, creating pools of warmth in the otherwise dimly lit space. Gold leaf detailing traced intricate patterns along the walls, catching the light and winking like stars.
I glanced up as I carefully maneuvered between two tables, and my steps faltered. The ceiling medallion above the main bar was illuminated tonight, spotlights highlighting details I hadn't noticed before. Intricate carvings of grape vines intertwined in beautiful patterns.
I didn't see him until it was too late. The collision jolted through me like an electric shock. My tray tipped, then upended completely. Time seemed to slow as the crystal glasses lifted from the silver surface, hung suspended for a fraction of a second, then six thousand dollars worth of expensive whiskeyplummeted toward the floor. The sound of shattering glass cut through me.
Amber liquid splashed across the black marble, across polished leather shoes, across the hem of an immaculately tailored suit. I looked up, horror crawling up my throat, to meet the piercing blue eyes of Dario Luca.
The conversations around us stopped. The music seemed to fade into the background. I felt dozens of eyes turn to witness my catastrophe. I’d just destroyed thousands of dollars of rare scotch at the feet of the owner himself.
"I—" My voice died. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. “Oh, God.” My voice was barely above a whisper but it felt like I’d screamed. My throat was tight and I was trembling so hard I wasn’t sure how long I could stay upright.
Without thinking, I dropped to my knees, frantically trying to gather the larger shards of broken crystal. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Luca. I wasn't looking— I didn’t see— " The words tumbled out, tripping over each other in their rush to escape. My hands shook violently as I tried to collect the pieces, making me clumsy. A shard bit into my finger, but I barely noticed the sting.
"I'll pay for everything," I promised desperately, my voice barely above a whisper. I knew paying back the money I’d just lost would be impossible. "Please don't fire me. Please. I need this job. I'll work extra shifts. I'll—I'll figure something out."
Blood from my cut finger smeared across the silver tray as I scrambled to pile up as much of the glass as I could. The whiskey had soaked into the hem of my black uniform, the scent of expensive alcohol rising around me like an accusation. I blinked rapidly, fighting back tears even as they spilled over and tracked down my cheeks. "I'm so sorry," I repeated, not daring to look up again. "It was the ceiling. I got distracted by all the lights. It was stupid, so stupid— "
My breath came in short, panicked gasps. I couldn't lose this job. I just couldn't. The back rent, the utilities I'd been juggling, it would all come crashing down. And for what? Because I couldn't keep my eyes where they belonged? The lights and the sparkle were so pretty!
A particularly jagged piece of crystal sliced deeper into my palm as I grabbed it. I hissed in pain but didn't stop. The blood mixed with the spilled whiskey, turning it a sickening shade of pink.
"Please," I whispered, more to myself than to Dario, who remained motionless above me. "Please, I'll do anything."
I was vaguely aware of the watching crowd, of whispers starting to spread like ripples across the club. I imagined what they saw. Likely seeing me a pathetic girl on her knees, literally bleeding for her mistake, begging the notorious Dario Luca for mercy. The humiliation burned hotter than the cuts on my hands.
In the two weeks I'd worked atThe Gray, I'd seen Dario from a distance several times. He moved through the club like a shark through dark water, everyone yielding in his path. I'd heard the staff whisper about him. Rumor had it he was coldly efficient with unflinching standards. How people who displeased him simply disappeared fromThe Gray, never to be mentioned again. Grant it, that last part was more fantasy than reality — I hoped — but as I saw his shoes beside me, splashed in a couple hundred dollars worth of rare scotch, I would well imagine he could make one little mousy, daydreaming, klutz disappear. Especially since I’d probably ruined his shoes, and definitely wasted what was a small fortune in alcohol.
I reached for another shard, larger than the others. My blood-slicked fingers slipped against the smooth crystal, sending it skittering across the floor. A sob of frustration caught in my throat.
"I'm sorry," I said again, the words a broken record. "Mr. Luca, I'm so sorry." I barely registered the pain to my fingers, too consumed by the catastrophe unfolding around me. The crowd's whispers grew louder, the weight of their stares heavier. Any second now, Dario would call security. I'd be escorted out, unemployed again, maybe even charged for the damage. I kept my eyes down, focused on gathering the scattered pieces, as if somehow collecting every shard might salvage my job.
"Christ, would you stop?" A voice cut through my panic, low and controlled but with an unexpected gentleness that made me freeze.
I heard the soft rustle of expensive fabric, as Dario Luca — the Dario Luca — knelt beside me on the wet marble floor. His tailored suit pants made contact with the spilled whiskey, the liquid immediately seeping into what I knew must be a very expensive garment.So, add it to my tab, I guess.I stared at him, uncomprehending. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Why wasn't he yelling? Why wasn't he firing me on the spot?
"Leave it," he said, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it during my few glimpses of him around the club. "You've already cut yourself." He glanced at my already bleeding hands, his brows drawing together slightly.
I couldn't process his words, couldn't reconcile this moment with everything I'd heard about him. My panic had a momentum of its own, driving my hands to continue gathering shards even as my brain struggled to catch up. I reached for a particularly large piece of crystal, its edge glinting dangerously in the amber light.
"I said leave it." This time his words had more force behind them, though still not angry. Before I could react, Dario reached out, his hand moving to stop mine. Our fingers collided over the broken shard. The contact sent an electric current shooting up my arm, across my chest, settling somewhere low in mystomach. I gasped softly, the sound barely audible even to my own ears. His hand was warm, solid, the skin surprisingly calloused for someone who spent his days at a desk. Of course, what did I really know about the man? He might be a hands-on kind of guy.
Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity as our hands remained frozen together over the broken glass. I finally dared to look up. Dario's gaze, those piercing blue eyes I'd been trying to avoid, locked with mine. They weren't cold as I'd expected, not at the moment. Something flickered in their depths, something that made my breath catch and my pulse stutter. I couldn't look away, couldn't move, couldn't think beyond the point where his skin touched mine.
The club around us faded to background noise. Dario’s gaze held questions I couldn't understand. The slight furrow between his brows deepened as he studied my face with an intensity that should have frightened me but instead made heat bloom in my cheeks. "You're bleeding," he said, his voice dropping even lower, meant for my ears alone.
I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close we were, of how many people were watching this strange tableau. "It's nothing," I managed, my own voice barely above a whisper.
His thumb moved almost imperceptibly against my wrist, just the slightest pressure, but it sent another jolt through my system. I watched his pupils dilate slightly, wondering if he'd felt it too. From the corner of my eye, I noticed movement at the edge of the gathered crowd. A tall man with a striking resemblance to Dario watched us with open curiosity, one eyebrow raised in what might have been surprise. I recognized him vaguely from staff briefings. Vittorio Luca, Dario's brother and right-hand man had an intensity to his stare that made me even more conscious of how strange this moment must look tooutsiders. I had serious doubts Dario Luca ever knelt in spilled whiskey.
The spell broke with the sound of hurried footsteps. A server, Elena, I thought her name was, rushed over with a dustpan and several towels. "Mr. Luca, let me take care of this," she said, her voice professional but tight with tension.
