A thick head of black curls falls across his prominent brow and into his icy-blue eyes as he stares down at me, a slow smirk spreading across his lips.
I know Michelangelo Chiaroscuro by sight, though I’ve never met him.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have needed to lay eyes on him before to be confident that’s who this behemoth of a man is.
The eldest Chiaroscuro brother’s reputation precedes him—not just the fact that he’s the brutal, violent personal bodyguard to Chicago’s future Italian Don, but that he strikes fear in anyone who meets him.
He’s as intimidating as he is lethal.
And I just spilled prosecco all over his dinner jacket.
“Let me get you something for that,” I stammer, setting my drinks back on the bar with unnecessary force to grab a handful of cocktail napkins.
Heart in my throat, I press the paper squares to his lapels, trying to dab up my champagne.
“It’s fine, really,” he insists, his bear-paw-sized hands wrapping around mine to stop my pathetic attempt to fix the situation. “You’re the one wearing most of your drink.”
My heartbeat bursts into a sprint as he redirects my hands to my chest, his fingertips brushing the swells of my breasts as he uses the napkins I’m holding to dry me.
Something electric surges through my body, igniting a fire deep in my core.
A sharp breath rushes between my teeth as I freeze, my eyes jumping back to his face, and his amusement seems to grow as he releases me.
“Apologies,” he says, though the heat of his gaze would say he’s anything but sorry for the contact. “Are you okay?”
The question catches me off guard, maybe because it’s so far from how things would have ended if I’d spilled a drink on Pyotr, and my stomach flip-flops nervously.
“Yes, fine,” I say, dropping my gaze and mopping at my chest to hide my embarrassment—and my intense, inexplicable attraction to this man. I shouldn’t even be thinking of him like that.
I’m married, for God’s sake. Not to mention he’s part of a family that is notoriously hostile toward the Novikovs—a family to which I now belong.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Pyotr’s voice is like a bucket of ice water being dumped over my head, and if I thought the situation couldn’t get any more uncomfortable, it just did.
“It was an accident, Pyotr,” I insist. Setting the fistful of wet napkins on the bar, I snatch his drink and press it into his palm to occupy his hands.
Pyotr’s cold blue eyes flash as he huffs in disgust. “You pretty little idiot. You really thinkMichelangelo Chiaroscurowould accidentally grope my wife?” he asks, turning his scowl toward the man who somehow manages to supersede even my husband in size.
“No, I spilled?—”
“Well, if it isn’t Signor Novikov.” The oily-smooth voice that cuts me off belongs to none other than Don Augusta himself—head of the Mafia family that rules Chicago’s criminal underbelly and Michelangelo’s father. “And this must be your blushing young bride. I have to say, you’ve outdone yourself this time, Pyotr. She’s positively stunning.”
My pulse flutters as the Don’s dark gaze settles on me like a winter storm, his smile failing to meet his eyes.
“Congratulations on your recent nuptials, my dear,” he says as four more looming shadows come to stand behind Michelangelo and his father.
They form a daunting united front—Don Augusta and his five sons, all rippling with muscles beneath their fine Italian suits, contempt seeping from them like a thick fog.
“Such a pity we weren’t invited to the wedding,” the Don says. “I could easily take offense.”
His tone is light, playful even, but the underlying tension is palpable, and when I sneak a glance at the oldest Chiaroscuro brother, Michelangelo is no longer smiling.
Instead, a deep scowl darkens his features, making my stomach quiver with dread.
“After everything your family has done, you’re fortunate that anyone invites you to events like these,” Pyotr growls, his voice flat and deadly despite how low it is. “Come, Anika,” he commands, his fingers closing around my upper arm with bruising force. “We’re leaving.”
Swigging his drink in one gulp, he slams the glass down onto the bartop, then pulls me from the ballroom, his pace near impossible to keep up with in my four-inch strappy gold Louboutins.
