She startles like I’ve touched her, even though I’m still a step away. “Mr. Moretti.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Good evening.”
I reach for her hand automatically, fingers lifting toward her elbow, wanting to feel her, to anchor this mess with something real. I want that little spark I always get when my skin brushes hers, the one I’ve been thinking about for days.
She flinches.
Actually flinches.
Her hand jerks out of my reach so fast she might as well have slapped me. My hand hangs there—suspended between us. Empty, stupid, exposed.
For a second, everything inside me goes still.
Right. Message received.
I let my hand fall back to my side, slow, controlled, like I meant to do it that way. I force myself to mask the humiliation—this isn’t unfamiliar. I remind myself it’s survival, not pride, that keeps me composed.
Her mother steps half a pace closer to Dallen, like she’s shielding her from me. Like I’m the threat here. Perhaps she’s more clever than I gave her credit for.
“Darling,” the Chief says, his voice carrying that measured authority you hear on press conferences and crime documentaries. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”
Friend?
If I weren’t the one bleeding internally, I’d laugh.
Dallen swallows, straightens, and forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yes. Of course.” Her fingers twist in the fabric of her clutch so hard her knuckles turn white. “Mother, Dad…thisis Stephen Moretti, one of our hosts this evening.” She pauses. “Mr. Moretti, these are my parents, Susan and Thomas Byrne.”
The way she leaves it there—all formal like I’m not someone who she’s kind of seeing—lands like a king hit.
I’m not some nameless nobody she picked up at a bar, nothing but the host for the evening. I might be the devil in every cop’s bedtime story, but I built half the skyline these people are drinking under tonight. I’ve clawed my way out of my father’s mess and bled for every inch of legitimacy we have.
I’m not hiding who the fuck I am.
I give her a small, cool smile, then turn to her parents. I extend my hand to the Chief. “It’s an honor to meet you, Chief Byrne. Thank you for coming tonight and for your service to our great city.”
His eyes narrow, a flicker of recognition sparking there. As the Chief of Police, of course he knows who my family is. Ordinarily, I doubt he’d care, so long as we kept ourselves clean, but my knowing his daughter, dating her possibly, that was something else altogether.
He doesn’t move to shake my hand, leaves me out there, hanging again. People nearby could be watching. I don’t look to check. I just keep my hand steady, my jaw relaxed, like I’m not timing each heartbeat he makes me wait, but I won’t wait forever.
Finally, he takes it.
His grip is firm. Not crushing, but deliberate. Testing. I meet his gaze and squeeze back just as hard, no more, no less. I’ve shaken hands with men who’ve ordered hits and priests who’ve given last rites. A handshake can tell you a lot about a man.
This one says: I know exactly what you are, and I’m not impressed.
“Mr. Moretti,” he says, voice flat. “I’ve heard your name.”
Not “nice to meet you.” Not even a fake thank-you for the charity donations we’ve made to his own department’s youth programs. Just that he’s heard of my name. “I get that a lot,” I reply lightly. “Hopefully for the right reasons these days.”
One of his brows lifts, the smallest twitch of disdain. “That depends on who you ask.”
I see Dallen tense, like a wire pulled too tight. Her hand hovers near her father’s arm, as if she’s not sure if she should touch him or me or neither. Her mother is watching me like I’m something she’s stepped in.
I turn to her because I was raised with manners, even if they were carved into me by a violent man. “Mrs. Byrne,” I say with a nod. “Good to see you again.”
“We’ve met?” Her tone is frosted glass.
“When I was out to dinner several days ago with Dallen,” I remind her. “You were dining with friends.” I let a hint of amusement curve my lips.
Recognition flickers in her eyes, followed immediately by annoyance that she’s spoken to me at all. “Ah. Yes.” She gives me her hand like it’s costing her something, fingers limp, as if actual contact might infect her.
