“Yes.”
“No,” I snap, finally facing him. “I’m not interested in loud music and half-naked women.”
He gasps, affronted. “Excuse you? I wouldneverdrag you somewhere like that. What do you take me for—some kind of harlot?”
I blink. “Yes. You’re the biggest man-whore I know.”
“And the sky is blue,” he sighs. “Just one drink, brother. If not for you, then for me. My little Persian lady friend flew home last night, and now I’m tragically alone.”
“You have at least five women you could call right now.”
“But I wantyou,” he says, batting his lashes like an idiot. “Come on. One drink. We’ll go to Silo instead of a club.”
I’m already leaning toward no—but when I open my mouth, I cave.
“Fine,” I mutter. “One drink.”
“Perfect.” He claps my shoulder, steering me toward the door. “We’ve got a bottle of 1895 waiting with our name on it.”
Silo smellsof leather and aged whiskey. The lights are low, the jazz slow and deliberate—nothing frantic, nothing loud. A place built for men who want to disappear without being forgotten.
We take the far corner, dark liquor between us while Valerio throws out half-hearted jokes, clearly trying to haul me out of my own head. A few land. Most don’t. My thoughts snap right back every time.
“When it’s all said and done,” he says, warming to himself, “I think I’ll retire like Hugh Hefner. My own version of Playboy bunnies, silk robe, cigar in one hand, whiskey in the other. Heaven.”
I take a slow sip. “Sounds like paradise,” I deadpan.
He scoffs. “Rio’s Angels.Tell me that doesn’t have a ring to it.”
“It absolutely does,” I mutter, rolling my eyes—then fail to stop the low laugh that slips out anyway. “You should trademark it.”
For a moment, the edge dulls. Just a fraction.
Then the air changes.
It’s subtle—a shift in temperature, a wrongness in the oxygen—but I feel it instantly. I don’t need to turn. I know that presence. I know that stench.
I glance over my shoulder, following the sudden pause of the room.
Of course.
Giacomo.
Midnight suit—tacky as ever. A smug grin split across his face like a fresh scar. He has the audacity to walk in as if he still belongs here, as if he hasn’t been blacklisted, whispered about, quietly erased.
I’ll be having a word with management. Let rot like that back in, and the whole place starts to stink.
His gaze sweeps the room slowly, possessive, like a man revisiting a kingdom he lost and still believes is his. When he takes his first step forward, the tension tightens—sharp, electric.
Whispers ripple. He hears them. He always does. And he doesn’t care. Men like him never do. They build empires on sand and act shocked when the tide comes in.
He moves deeper into the room, smile widening.
Heads turn, but no one greets him. A few older men shift, uneasy. Others look away entirely. Once, he could command a room with a glance. Now he barely earns acknowledgment.
But that smile—slick, venomous—it finds me.
Our eyes lock. I see the spark in his, the quiet thrill of it.
