“About you? You wish,” I murmur, sipping my wine and looking anywhere other than the maddening man before me.
The restaurant really is something. It’s the kind of place that whispers wealth.
Dim lighting.
Heavy linen.
A panoramic view of the city glittering outside like a crown.
Every table is its own little stage, every diner pretending not to notice the others while they play their own private games.
And here I am, sitting across from Atlas Stavros—the most dangerous kind of man.
Not the loud, obvious ones. No.
The quiet ones. The secretive ones. The plotters.
The ones who smile when they lie, who seduce when they speak, and who make you forget which side of the fire you’re standing on.
I swirl the wine in my glass, pretending it’s him under my scrutiny instead of the other way around.
“I’ve heard the stories,” I correct, giving him a pointed look over the rim. “Andrea Falco—she’s my honorary cousin by marriage—said her husband had to train your personal guard a few weeks back when you were still negotiating with Sigma.”
I let my mouth curve in a faint smile.
“Said you were the type of man who could snap his fingers and be surrounded by supermodels within seconds. Naked ones, apparently.”
He smirks. That slow, lazy kind of smirk that feels like a sin.
The one that starts small and grows until it’s a full-blown invitation to ruin.
“I’m not sure what’s more flattering,” he murmurs, his accent curling around every word, rich and decadent. “That your cousin’s husband still talks about me—or that you listened to him.”
I tilt my head, keeping my voice cool.
“Oh, I didn’t say I believed him.”
A pause.
I sip, slow and deliberate.
“But I’m not blind either. You’re charming. Confident. Filthy rich. Royalty. The kind of man who collects beautiful things just because he can.”
“Beautiful things,” he repeats, his tone dipping low—dangerously low. “You make it sound like I don’t know the difference between art and people.”
“Do you?” I challenge.
Something in the air shifts.
He leans forward, elbows braced on the table, his gaze cutting through me like a hot blade wrapped in velvet.
The kind of stare that strips you bare while you sit perfectly still and let it happen.
“I know the difference,” he says quietly. “Art never looks back at you.”
The words hit me somewhere deep and unguarded.
There’s a flash in his eyes—something raw, almost broken—and for half a breath, I forget to breathe.
