Oliver threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the apartment. “That’s my girl,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Always thinking strategically.”
We stepped out into the biting Chicago night, the crisp air a welcome contrast to the warmth of the apartment. The city lights twinkled like scattered diamonds, a dazzling spectacle that still held a certain, albeit distant, charm.
As we walked towards the waiting car, a sleek black limousine, I couldn’t shake the persistent feeling of being watched. I’d been feeling this way for a little over a week now, and it made little sense. It was a prickling sensation on my skin, a subtle shift in the air that my instincts screamed was more than just my imagination playing tricks. I glanced around, my gaze sweeping over the darkened alleyways and the shadowed figures lurking in doorways but found nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, the unease persisted, as a cold knot tightened in my stomach, a premonition of something unseen, something waiting.
“You alright, Savy?” Oliver asked, noticing my unease. He placed a comforting hand on my arm; his brow furrowed with concern.
I forced a smile, attempting to dispel my rising anxiety. “Just Chicago jitters,” I lied, my words feeling hollow even to me. “This city has a way of making you feel you’re never truly alone.”
He squeezed my arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ve always got your back like you’ve got mine.”
His words, meant to be reassuring, did little to quell the growing sense of dread. I knew he meant well, but his assurances felt like a thin veneer against the encroaching darkness I sensed lurking just beyond the edges of the illuminated streets.
Tonight’s ball was being held at the Hilton Chicago on Michigan Avenue, and the promoters didn’t skimp on all the bells and whistles. As our car approached, the street was bustling with activity—cars and limousines lined Michigan Avenue, creating an impressive display of luxury and anticipation. Reporters crowded the entrance to the hotel, their cameras flashing as they captured guests arriving, eager to document every detail of the evening’s festivities.
As the limousine glided to a stop in front of the entrance, I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the barrage of cameraflashes and the hum of excited chatter. The air was charged with anticipation, every face turned toward the grand hotel doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone noteworthy. For a brief moment, my anxiety faded, replaced by the exhilarating energy of the crowd and the promise of an unforgettable night.
Oliver squeezed my hand, his familiar warmth a grounding force against the rising tide of my nerves. “Just remember who you are, Savy,” he whispered, his eyes meeting mine with unwavering support. His words—simple yet profound—resonated deep within me.
We stepped out of the limo, the flashing cameras momentarily blinding. I felt Oliver’s arm steady me as we navigated the throng of reporters, their questions a cacophony that blurred into the background. As we entered the grand ballroom, the sheer opulence of the event struck me. Crystal chandeliers dripped with light, illuminating a sea of elegant gowns and sharp suits. The air buzzed with conversation, a sophisticated hum that was a stark contrast to the raucous laughter of the Golden Skulls. My gaze swept across the room, a familiar pang of homesickness momentarily piercing the carefully constructed composure I’d learned to wear.
Then, across the crowded room, my eyes met a pair of impossibly dark, intense blue ones. He was standing by a table laden with champagne, his posture radiating an effortless power that drew every eye, surrounded by five other men, suitably dressed for tonight’s events. His caramel skin gleamed under the chandeliers, and his perfectly tailored suit did little to hide the formidable physique beneath. As his gaze locked onto mine, a slow, deliberate smile spread across his lips, a smile that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. I recognized the subtle cadence of his posture, the sinful confidence that seemed to emanate from him, and I gasped.
It was the man from the deli, the one who had spoken to me in Italian.
“Savy, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No,” I murmured, my voice a whisper, my gaze still locked with his. “Just... someone I didn’t expect to see.” The heat that had flared in my chest when he’d spoken to me in Italian at the deli was back, a confusing mix of apprehension and a strange, unwelcome flutter of excitement. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, held a knowing glint, as if he’d expected this moment, as if he’d orchestrated our paths crossing again. The confidence radiating from him was palpable, a stark contrast to the polished, yet somewhat reserved, demeanor of the men I usually encountered in this circle.
Oliver followed my gaze, his brow furrowed. “Shit,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble.
I barely heard him, unable to articulate the sudden, unnerving sensation that had washed over me. He was dangerous; I knew it. The type of man who moved through the world with a predatory grace, who could charm and intimidate in equal measure. And yet, there was an undeniable magnetism about him, a raw power that was both unsettling and strangely compelling. He was the antithesis of everything I strived for—a stark reminder of the world I was trying to leave behind, and yet, a part of me couldn’t tear my eyes away.
This wasn’t just a chance encounter; it felt like a collision, a carefully orchestrated meeting of two worlds that should never have crossed paths. He took a slow sip of his champagne, his eyes never leaving mine, and a flicker of something unreadable passed across his face—recognition, perhaps, or a calculated assessment—as he whispered something to the man standing next to him.
Then he moved.
With a slow, purposeful journey across the crowded room, his gaze never left mine. With each step he took, it felt like a deliberate advance, a tightening of an invisible net. The air around me seemed to thicken, the ambient noise of the ballroom fading into a dull roar.
I knew I should look away, pretend I hadn’t seen him, but my feet were rooted to the spot, a silent spectator to the inevitable collision course we were on. My carefully constructed composure, the shield I’d so painstakingly built, felt as fragile as spun glass, threatening to shatter with his approach.
I recognized his predatory stillness, the coiled energy that spoke of a power I was only beginning to glimpse. He was the embodiment of the very danger I had tried so desperately to outrun, a living, breathing testament to the shadows that clung to the fringes of my carefully constructed life. And yet, as he held my gaze, a strange pull, a dangerous curiosity, stirred within me—a whisper that urged me closer, against every instinct screaming for me to flee.
“We meet again...” he said, his voice an indistinct murmur that seemed to vibrate through the opulent ballroom, cutting through the din of polite conversation. It was a statement, not a question, delivered with a confidence that brooked no argument. And as he spoke, the carefully constructed walls of my composure crumbled, the phantom scent of espresso and a stolen moment in a busy deli suddenly flooding my senses, a potent reminder of the man who had somehow unraveled me with a few carelessly thrown words and a devastating smile.
Chapter Nine
Massimo
The air in the Hilton Chicago’s grand ballroom, usually thick with the scent of expensive perfume and hushed ambition, felt suddenly charged—electric, unsettling. My carefully constructed detachment, a fortress built over years of disciplined denial, began to show hairline fractures as I scanned the room for any threats. I could almost feel the old panic rising—memories of past betrayals at gatherings like this clawed at the edges of my composure, threatening to unravel me. The muffled clink of glasses, interwoven with bursts of laughter and the subtle scrape of heels on polished marble, seemed louder than usual, every sound a warning bell. The weight of stares from Chicago’s elite pressed against my shoulders, each glance a silent judgment, a reminder of the precarious ground my family walked in this city.
I hated these events. But Cesar, ever the strategist and my older brother, had informed us all that attending as a united front was the only way to ensure the family’s position. He was right, of course—he always was—but the pomp and circumstance grated against my nerves, my role as silent protector at odds with the easy confidence demanded here.
“You look like you’re about to kill someone, brother,” Cesar leaned close and whispered, his tone a mixture of amusement and warning. I could almost hear the old lessons in his voice, the reminders to control my reactions, to never let anyone see the cracks.
“I hate these people. They’re fake as fuck,” I muttered, letting the words slip out in a low growl, my eyes still scanning the crowd for familiar threats or hidden agendas.
“Yes,” Cesar chuckled, keeping his voice low. “But most have business dealings with the family.” His ability to navigate this world—one foot in danger, the other in diplomacy—never failed to unsettle me.
