He's tall. Like extremely tall.Dark hair. Blue eyes that cut through the smoke and the shadows and land on me with the precision of a scalpel.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
Just looks at me like he's been expecting me.
Like he already knows exactly why I'm here.
"Adrian," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. "What did you do?"
But Adrian doesn't answer.
And the man in the perfect suit smiles.
CHAPTER THREE
Bianca
I know this man.
Not personally—God, no—but I've seen his face. On the news. In magazines at the checkout line of the bodega near my apartment. Usually with some headline about political donations or real estate deals or charity galas where tickets cost more than I make in a year.
Dante… Vitale.
The name floats up from memory like debris from a shipwreck. There was a scandal years ago, something about his father and corruption charges that dragged the whole family through the mud. But this man—standing here in his three-piece suit that looks like something a hundred times out of my paycheck —doesn't look disgraced.
He looks dangerous.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. His blue eyes are cold and assessing, tracking my every movement like I'm something he's considering purchasing. And maybe he is. Maybe that's exactly what this is.
My God, what am I doing here?
My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised no one else can hear it.
"Adrian." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "What's going on?"
Adrian won't look at me. He's staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, hands trembling as one of the men—a stocky guy with a scar bisecting his eyebrow—hands him a stack of papers.
"Just sign," the scarred man says.
Adrian doesn't hesitate. He scrawls his signature across the bottom of each page, barely glancing at the text. His hand shakes so badly the pen scratches, but he keeps going until every page is marked.
"There." He shoves the papers back. "We're done, right? I paid. It's over."
Dante tilts his head, studying Adrian the way a cat studies a mouse it's already decided to kill. "It's over."
Relief floods Adrian's face. He straightens, some of the tension draining from his shoulders, and turns toward the door.
I move to follow him, my feet already carrying me toward the exit because whatever this is, it's finished. Adrian settled whatever debt or deal brought us here, and now we can leave.
But a hand closes around my upper arm.
I jerk back, my head whipping toward the man who grabbed me—another guard, this one built like a brick wall with dead eyes that don't even register my presence.
"Let go of me."
He doesn't.
"Adrian?" My voice pitches higher. "Adrian!"
