We were supposed to leave in thirty minutes. Underneath a casino controlled by the Camorra, the night’s fight waited for him, the smell of sweat, money, and blood thick in the air even before we arrived.
I’d be there, front row, supporting him like I always had. But there was more riding on tonight. Father’sinstructions still rang in my head:Meet with the Camorra’s representative. Keep it clean. Keep it professional.
“Tony,” I said without looking up from my phone, “Do me a favor and don’t do anything crazy tonight.”
He laughed under his breath, rolling his shoulders as if loosening the weight of my warning. “Crazy? I’m just showing up,sorellina. Throw a few punches, collect my money, kiss the crowd. You worry too much.”
I finally glanced up, narrowing my eyes. “I need this meeting to go well. If you end up breaking someone’s jaw outside the ring –again– it’ll be my problem to clean up. Not yours.”
Tony grinned, wolfish and unbothered, wiping the sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt. “Relax. The Camorra loves me. I’m their favorite show.”
“They love betting on you,” I corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, blowing a kiss toward the glass like the Strip was his audience. “They’ll be eating out of your hand by the time you’re done with them anyway. Me?” He tapped his chest. “I just make sure the blood stays entertaining.”
I sighed, locking my phone and tossing it onto the couch beside me. He was impossible.
But he’d never lost a fight.
The neon lights pulsed outside, reflected in his smile.
And for one night, in thiscity of sin, we were both playing our parts.
The velvet ropes parted like waves, Tony’s crew spilling ahead of me with all the swagger of men who thought the night belonged to them. Maybe it did.
The Camorra loved my brother; his name drew the bets like moths to flame.
I followed, heels clicking against the marble, my dress hugging every line of me like a second skin. Tight. Short.Red, of course. Heads turned as we moved, but I didn’t so much as blink. Authority was an armor, and tonight, I wore it well.
The casino glittered – crystal chandeliers dripping light like melted diamonds, the air thick with perfume, cigars, and the electricity of money changing hands. Vegas nights had their own pulse, and I matched its rhythm stride for stride.
And then, I saw him.
The broad line of his shoulders, the way his hand curved lazily around a glass, gold catching against the cuff of an obscene watch. Matteo Di’Ablo. Black suit, sharp as sin, white shirt open at the throat, the barest edge of tan skin visible. Casual in the kind of way only power could afford.
I slowed my pace instinctively, almost falling in a trance of his presence. I hadn’t seen him since the End of Summer Rooftop White Party held by my family. Since our...
‘Don’t worry, princesa. I won’t tell anyone your secret...’
Talk. In the bathroom.
It’d been almost two months since then, and I still had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from reacting.
I quickened my pace. The last thing I needed was him thinking I’d noticed him.
If I just walked past –
The crowd surged, bodies pressing in around us, and I stumbled into the very person I was trying to avoid. My shoulder collided with hishuge,muscularback – and before I could curse the heels I had insisted I wear despite Tony warning me of the dark atmosphere – a powerful arm wrapped around my waist, catching me.
Strong. Unshakable.
Matteo steadied me effortlessly, his touchsearing hotagainst my skin. My breath caught – just once, just long enough for me to hate myself for it.
Our eyes locked. His – dark, amused, sharp as the glass in his hand. Mine – wide, betraying too much.
The noise of the casino seemed to dissolve, the crush of bodies blurring into nothing as though the world itself had stepped back to give him room. His gaze pinned me in place, pulling me into a silence so heavy it pressed against my ribs. Every instinct screamed at me to tear away, to remember the business ties between us, the danger he embodied – but in that frozen heartbeat, all I could feel was the pull. His eyes lingered, not with gentleness, but with a challenge, as though daring me to admit that I wasn’t immune to the charming, sex-God Matteo Di’Ablo.
It was unbearable, that closeness. The heat of his hand against my waist, the sharp gleam in his stare, the faint curve of his mouth that said he knew exactly what I was thinking. For the first time in months, the carefully tended hatred thinned into something rawer, sharper, terrifyingly alive. My chest rose with a breath I couldn’t steady, and still, I didn’t look away. Neither did he.
