1
ERIN
The clink of crystal glasses is the only music in the dining room, and it’s driving me insane.
I balance a silver tray on my shoulder, two plates of veal piccata threatening to slide off the edge, and force a smile that feels more like a grimace.
My feet ache. My stomach’s been growling since lunch, or lack thereof. My head’s pounding with a sleep-deprivation rhythm that could probably be set to a metronome. I feel like a string pulled so tight it's about to snap, and no one would even notice.
“Table three,” my manager, Donald, barks, and the smile slips for real this time.
I don’t turn around, but I know he’s already halfway back to the host stand, where he pretends he’s running things. What he’s actually doing is barking orders, sipping wine behind the counter, and waiting for someone else to take the fall if anything goes wrong.
That someone is me. It’s always me.
Not that I can afford to care. Rent’s due, the debt collectors are circling like vultures, and my student loans have entered the threatening-emails stage.
The only stroke of luck of my life was getting into the NYU Creative Writing program, but now, even that might go up in smoke at any second.
Notte Bianca is the only thing keeping me afloat, even though that, too, feels like it’s coming with weights tied to my ankles. I’m exhausted, strung out, and stretched so thin I’m not sure how I haven’t crumbled to dust.
But tonight is different. Tonight isthedinner. The one Donald’s been stressing about all month. A gathering of New York’s five richest CEOs. I don’t know what they really do, but they always tip well, and that’s what I’m counting on.
Especiallyhim.
I slide the tray down, hands steady even though I’m trembling inside. My eyes travel to the man at the center: Luca Lucchese.
Tall, lean, devastating in a midnight-black suit that probably costs more than my yearly salary. His jet-black hair is swept back like it doesn’t need effort, and his beard is just scruffy enough to look natural without ever crossing into sloppy. And thoseeyes. Icy blue, cool as a glacier.
He’s completely, utterly out of my league.
Still, a girl can dream. Not that it’s a healthy dream, or one I should entertain. But sometimes I catch myself imagining things. What would it be like to actually behis? To be a part of his world.
Without me realizing it, he’s become the blueprint for all the male leads of my stories for class. At the orphanage, I grew up reading the only two genres that seemed to make it into our third-hand little library: romances and thrillers. Now, thenovelettes I write for class all feature a tall, dark antihero with midnight hair and glacier eyes.
It’s a fantasy, but idealistic enough to always get me through tough days.
Deep down, I know it’ll never become reality.
I place the plate in front of the man beside him, then step to Luca’s side. As I set his plate down, my fingers brush his—just the lightest touch, enough to send a jolt up my arm like static. His gaze lifts, and for a split second, our eyes lock.
Something tightens in my chest.
His eyes are impossibly intense. I feel like I’ve been x-rayed, like he can see every fragile piece of me I try to hide. The broken bits. The scared bits. The unworthy parts.
Heat floods my cheeks.
“Excuse me,” I mumble, scurrying away like a guilty rabbit, ashamed that I even let myselflookat him like that.
“Miss!”
I turn, already plastering the smile back on.
Of course. Clive.
Donald’s uncle, who’s rumored to be Notte Bianca’s primary investor. An eternal pain in my behind.
“Is this supposed to be warm?” Clive prods the food on his plate with a disgusted look, like it personally insulted his lineage.
