prologue
Christmas Eve
Fallon
Entering the ominous, pitch-black mansion sends an unsettling chill racing down my spine, leaving a cascade of tingles in its wake. Yet, as a consummate professional, I force a smile and stride purposefully toward the kitchen.
The walls and floors are draped in shades of black, white, and blood-red, and an oppressive aura of death envelops me as I traverse the long, twisting hallway with Eliza and Brady trailing behind, following the rest of my team as we prepare for the party.
There’s not a hint of Christmas cheer in sight. You wouldn’t even realize it was Christmas Eve if it weren’t for tonight’s gathering—it feels more like a scene from a twisted version of The Nightmare Before Christmas than a festive celebration.
"This place is stunning," Eliza whispers, her wide eyes glancing around in awe.
"Stunning isn't the word I'd use; how about creepy?" I respond, keeping my smile intact while stifling a shiver as we pass a brightly lit glass cabinet, its interior lined with urns containing the ashes of long-departed ancestors.
Ancient weapons—mostly guns and razor-sharp daggers—grace the walls, either prized showpieces or sinister reminders of past victories; I can’t tell which, nor do I wish to find out. The rumors that swirl around this mansion spread faster than a California wildfire.
I simply want to set everything up for the party, collect the rest of my payment, and get the fuck out of here.
As I venture deeper into the hall, the images of deceased mob leaders seem to leer at me, their sharp, predatory gazes following me as I approach the kitchen.
How I ended up on the radar of New York's most feared and dangerous man is beyond me, yet here I am, about to cater a Christmas party for him and other powerful figures—men and women—on Christmas Eve, no less.
With half my staff tending to the entrees and the other half focused on decorations and drinks, I wander about to ensure everything runs smoothly while adding finishing touches where needed.
Just then, my brother rushes in, panic etched on his face. "Fallon, have you seen Nina?"
"Um, yeah. I saw her walking down the hall on her phone. But can you not worry about her right now, Brady? We have an hour left until Mr. Foley's guests arrive, and we still have things to finish."
As he ignores my words, I meticulously arrange the Christmas centerpieces, ensuring that every single one mirrors the other, feeling my OCD kick into high gear.
“I need to talk to her, Fallon. It’ll only take a second.” Anxiety coursing through him, Brady runs a hand through his icy blue tousled hair.
“Please go to the back room and bring me another stack of the green cloth napkins first.” I gesture toward the tables, noting how half of them lack adequate napkins.
In a huff, he spins on his heel, retreating in the direction Nina went, completely disregarding me. Fantastic. I don’t have time for drama today; this party has me stressed enough as it is.
Marching toward the back room to fetch the napkins myself, I round the corner, pushing open the door with a firm shove, only to collide with a strikingly handsome man, his muscular form encased in a perfectly tailored black suit, and his feet snug in shiny black shoes I can see my reflection in. Holy hell. It’s him…
His intense gaze pierces through me like daggers, and the seemingly calm smile on his face belies the murderous flicker in his eyes as he holds the door open, waiting for me to step inside.
"I’m so sorry for hitting you with the door, Mr—"
"Foley. Evander Foley." His wicked grin sends shivers down my spine as I enter the room to grab the napkins, the lump in my throat nearly choking me.
"I know who you are, Mr. Foley. Everyone does." I brush past him while a shiver races down my body, tainted by the sharp scent of blood and cigarette smoke that wafts under my nose.
"I’ll take that as a compliment," he replies smoothly, shifting slightly to follow my every move. "And who might you be? I've never seen you here before," he asks, eyebrow raised intriguingly, looking even more alluring as he does.
Control yourself, Fallon; he’s bad news.
“I’m Fallon, the event manager. It’s my company you hired for your Christmas party tonight.” I exhale, relieved, as I reach for the napkins, eager to escape his presence.
He may be drop-dead gorgeous and every inch what a woman could desire, but he’s mafia—no good comes from that, regardless of how tempting he might be.
“I’ve actually been looking for you. I wanted to say it’s looking… festive out there. You’ve outdone yourself, Fallon,” he says, his voice shifting to a sweet, sensual tone that makes my knees weak as I navigate toward the door. Damn it. I really don’t want to pass him again, but I have no choice.
“Thank you, Mr—” I start, but he stops me with an outstretched arm, clutching the napkins tight against my chest as I try to mask my unease with a smile.
