She was talking to someone near the terrace, laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. I already knew she’d find me before the night was over. She always did. Because she hadnothingto her name now, and that made her bitter.
Which meant she wantedmine.
The inheritance Cillian had left behind.
I took a slow sip of my water, wondering how quickly I could disappear before she noticed me.
But luck had never been on my side, had it?
I could practically feel Rita’s radar locking onto me, and sure enough, seconds later, she was looking my way. Her red lips curled into a smile that said she’d spotted her favorite prey. Me. Of course. Great.
I turned my head just enough to pretend I hadn’t seen her, but it was already too late.
She reached my side, arms crossed, chin high. “Valentina,” she purred. My name on her lips always sounded like an accusation.
I forced a polite smile. “Rita.”
Her gaze drifted over my dress, my shoes, my glass of water. Judging. Always judging. Her eyes lingered briefly on my hand, searching, probably hoping Max’s attempts to marry me off had finally succeeded. Sorry to disappoint.
“Interesting to see you here,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I didn’t think you had a taste for art.”
“I don’t. But I figured, what better place to run into friendly faces?”
“You always were good at pretending you belonged.”
She was baiting me. Trying to get under my skin so I’d slip up and say something she could twist and use against me. Rita wasn’t subtle, but then again, she didn’t need to be. She had nothing left to lose.
“I learned from the best,” I shot back. “How have you been? Still trying to squeeze every last dime out of the trust?”
“Careful, Valentina. Money doesn’t buy class.”
“And bitterness doesn’t buy happiness,” I countered sweetly.
Her eyes narrowed, but before she could deliver another barb, Rosalie’s mother appeared by my side.
“Valentina,” Evelyn greeted. “I was just telling Margot how lovely it is to see you here.”
Lovely. Sure.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, the lie tasting bitter.
Margot, the woman who had a relentless ambition for pestering me. She was always trying to get me to go to her galas. I wasn’t sure why she thought I’d ever spend more than fifty bucks on a piece of art, let alone almost eighty thousand.
After half an hour of brooding conversation with them, I ventured toward the patio.
That’s when I saw him.
Marco.
He was sitting at one of the round tables with his back to the terrace. His jacket was hanging on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His fingers held a glass of whiskey, but he never lifted it to his lips. I wondered if he avoided alcohol for any particular reason.
Instead of heading toward Rosalie and Daisy like I normally would, I moved toward the table full of men.
Max was there, of course. Mikhail. Giovanni. A few of their men. And Marco.
I placed my hands on the back of his chair, the barest brush of my fingertips against the fabric of his collar.
I didn’t look at him. Instead I smiled at Max.
