It'll do.
"This is great," I say, setting my bag on the bed. "Thank you, Maria."
"Are you sure? Mr. Vitale was very clear?—"
"Mr. Vitale will survive the disappointment." I pull out the photo of Mom, set it on the nightstand. "I'm not sleeping in his bed like some kind of call girl waiting for her appointment."
Maria's eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't argue. "I'll let him know you've chosen a different room."
"You do that."
She leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
I sit on the edge of the bed, finally alone for the first time since this nightmare started. The room is quiet. Too quiet. I can't hear traffic or neighbors, or any of the normal sounds that remind me I'm part of the world.
Just silence and luxury and the crushing weight of what I've agreed to.
I pull out my phone, and dial Mom's number but it goes straight to voicemail—she's probably sleeping. The doctors keep her sedated most of the time now, managing the pain that comes with late-stage cancer.
"Hey, Mom," I say after the beep. "Just wanted to hear your voice. I'm, uh, I'm staying somewhere new for a while. For work stuff. Don't worry about me. I love you."
I hang up before my voice can crack.
Then I lie back on the bed—the enormous, expensive bed in a house that costs more than I'll make in ten lifetimes—and stare at the ceiling.
A handful of hours ago, I was a schoolteacher with a dying mother and a mediocre boyfriend.
Now I'm a mobster's fake girlfriend, living in his palace, preparing to lie to his family.
I close my eyes and try to remember what normal felt like.
I'm pretty sure I've forgotten.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dante
Sapphire sits in the heart of Manhattan, tucked between Fifth and Madison where only people with the right connections know to look for it. No sign outside. No velvet ropes. Just a black door with a doorman who knows every face that matters.
He nods as I approach. "Mr. Vitale. They're waiting for you in the private room."
Inside, the club is all dark wood and leather, low lighting and expensive whiskey. The kind of place where deals get made and secrets stay buried. Matteo owns three of these scattered across the city, and this one is his favorite—close to his place, far enough from prying eyes.
I find them in the back room, a space reserved for family business. Matteo sits at the head of the table, nursing whatlooks like bourbon, his massive frame relaxed in a way that's deceiving. He's six-four, built like he still boxes every morning, which he does. Dark hair graying at the temples, sharp brown eyes that miss nothing. At thirty-eight, he's the youngest don the Romano family has ever had, and he holds the position through respect and strategic brutality.
He's also the closest thing I have to a brother.
Enzo leans against the bar, arms crossed, his expression set in its usual scowl. He's the underboss—Matteo's second—and he looks the part. Six-one, black hair he keeps military-short, leaner than Matteo but no less dangerous, and a scar running through his left eyebrow from a fight when he was sixteen. He's thirty-five and perpetually pissed off about something, though tonight he looks more irritated than usual.
Probably Matteo’s sister again. Isabella has that effect on him.
Luca sits beside Enzo nursing a bourbon, thirty-three, black hair and sharp eyes that miss nothing. He’s Matteo’s brother and consigliere and he’s a charmer when he wants to be. When he doesn’t want to be? You don’t want to be near him.
Rafael, or as we call him Rafe, is sprawled in a chair, looking like he just walked off a magazine shoot instead of out of the Bronx. Thirty-two, olive skin, dark curly hair that somehow always looks effortlessly styled, and a smile that's gotten him out of more trouble than it's gotten him into. He's the capo of the Bronx and Queens, and he's also the only one of us who treats violence like a joke right up until he's committing it.
Women love him. Men want to be him or kill him. Usually both.
"Dante!" Rafe raises his glass. "About time. We were starting to think you got lost."
