The drive to Manhattan takes forty minutes. Dante's quiet, which gives me too much time to overthink everything. I'm about to meet his closest friends—the men he trusts with his life, his business, his secrets.
The men who will judge whether I'm convincing enough to pull off this charade.
Matteo's building is in Tribeca, all steel and glass and the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself. The penthouse elevator requires a key card that Dante produces without fanfare.
"Relax," he says as we ascend. "You're wound so tight you might snap."
"I'm about to meet a room full of mobsters who are going to decide if I'm good enough for you. How exactly should I be feeling?"
"Like you don't give a damn what they think." His hand finds the small of my back. "You're smart, sharp, and you don't take shit from anyone. That's all you need to be."
The elevator doors open directly into the penthouse, and I'm immediately hit with the sound of male laughter and the smell of expensive cigars.
The space is massive—open-concept, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, furniture that screams money and taste.But what catches my attention is the poker table in the center, surrounded by men who look like they could kill me without breaking a sweat.
"Dante!" A man who can only be Matteo stands from the head of the table. He's huge—easily six-four, built like he still boxes, with dark hair graying at the temples and eyes that miss nothing. "About time. We were starting to think you'd chickened out."
"I don't chicken out, Matteo. I make entrances." Dante's hand tightens on my back. "Everyone, this is Bianca. Bianca, this is everyone."
"Subtle," a man with dark curly hair and a smile too charming for his own good drawls. "I'm Rafe. The pretty one."
"The delusional one," another man corrects. He's leaner, with military-short hair and a scar through his eyebrow. "Enzo. The one who actually works."
"Luca." The last man nods. He's quieter, watchful, probably the smartest one in the room. "Matteo's brother."
"And I," Matteo says with a grin that transforms his intimidating face, "am the one who keeps these idiots alive. Welcome to our humble gathering, Bianca."
"Humble," I repeat, looking around at the penthouse that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime. "Right."
Rafe laughs. "Oh, I like her already. She's got sass."
"She's got more than sass," Dante mutters.
"Bianca!" A woman emerges from what must be the kitchen, and I'm struck by how stunning she is. Dark auburn hair, golden-brown eyes, slim but with a presence that commands attention. "Finally, another female. I was drowning in testosterone."
"Alessia," Matteo says, and there's something in his voice—possessive, protective, complicated. "Be nice."
"I'm always nice." She rolls her eyes and approaches me, extending a hand. "Ignore them. They're all bark and some bite, but mostly they're just overgrown children with guns."
I take her hand, and her grip is surprisingly strong. "Bianca. The newest acquisition, apparently."
Her eyes sharpen with understanding. "Ah. One of those situations."
"You could say that."
"Then we definitely need to talk. Away from the testosterone." She loops her arm through mine. "Come on. Let them grunt and compare gun sizes. We'll get wine."
Dante looks like he wants to protest, but Matteo claps a hand on his shoulder. "Let them bond. You're going to need her to like Alessia if this is going to work."
In the kitchen, Alessia pours two generous glasses of red wine and hands me one. "So. How bad is it?"
"That obvious?"
"I've been where you are." She leans against the counter. "Maybe not exactly the same, but close enough. Trapped by circumstances, forced to play a role, surrounded by dangerous men who think they know what's best."
"How did you handle it?"
"By refusing to be what they expect." Her smile is sharp. "They want us scared? We get brave. They want us submissive? We get mouthy. They want us to fade into the background?" She gestures to herself. "We make damn sure they can't look away."
