“Got it,” Lars says, already moving.
“And Lars?” He stops, looking back.
“If anyone lays a fucking hand on her, I’ll start breaking fingers.”
He nods. “Understood.”
I stalk across the room and lean over the bar, catching the eye of the nearest cocktail server as she passes. She’s new—young, pretty, the kind of girl who’s still getting used to the velvet heat of Monarch. Her eyes widen slightly as recognition dawns. Sheblinks twice, shoulders straightening with the sudden realization of who I am.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asks, voice tipping toward nervousness.
“VIP Room Four,” I say quietly, the words sharp with command. I point toward the stage. “Tell Bianca management needs a word. Escort her personally after her set ends—no detours. Do not use my name.”
Her gaze flickers with something caught between fear and excitement. She nods quickly, lips parting. “Got it. Want me to bring anything to drink?”
“Champagne,” I answer, already turning away.
I don’t stop to watch her go. I’m already moving, each step toward the room tightening the coil of tension tight in my spine. I should’ve stayed in the crowd, kept watching her from a distance like a man with patience and control. But I possess neither of those things when it comes to her.
VIP Room Four is tucked into the far corner of the second floor, hidden just enough from the floor below to feel untouchable. Private enough for secrets. Lavish enough to make a man forget the world outside. Crystal sconces spill golden light across velvet-lined walls, softening the edges of temptation. On the center table, a silver bucket cradles a bottle of Dom, condensation sliding down its neck beside two waiting flutes.
“I’ll be right back with her, sir,” the waitress says, and slips out.
I don’t sit. My steps drag back and forth across the carpet. My pulse hammers, my hands unsteady as I pour champagne I don’t intend to drink. The storm in my head leaves no room for calm.
What the fuck is she doing here? She vanished without a trace—no name, no trail, nothing but the memory of the want in her eyes and her body under mine. And now she’s back, not as the woman I spent one night burning for, but as Bianca. A Monarch Angel. A performer dressed in silk and sin, hiding behind another lie.
I force my fists to unclench, try to breathe past the ache in my chest. I’ve built a reputation out of blood and silence, buried every hint of softness beneath iron control. I’m a Marchetti. No one gets under my skin. No one cracks me open.
Except her. She was a flame I should have extinguished but instead let consume me. And I’ve been burning for her ever since.
The door clicks open.
I don’t turn. Not yet. Her footsteps fall quiet against the floor, careful. I hear her pause just inside the threshold. “Management wanted to see me?”
Her tone is calm, almost casual, but I hear that faint thread of strain beneath the surface. She’s already braced for something. Already knows she’s stepped into a trap she can’t name.
I turn.
The moment our eyes meet, I see it. The flicker. The crack in her mask. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, but not before I catch it—recognition.
She knows.
And the satisfaction that rolls through me is dark, consuming. Because I’ve lived two years with the echo of her in my head, every night replaying the feel of her skin, the sound of her voice in my ear.
And this time, there isn’t a way for her to leave.
The momentI step into VIP Room Four, the air changes.
It’s warmer. Tighter. Charged like a thunderstorm waiting to drop straight fire onto a skyline. I feel it in my throat before I see him. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and every instinct I’ve sharpened over the past seven years goes on red alert.
I step farther in, spine straight, chin lifted, expression blank.
“Management wanted to see me?” I ask smoothly, hands at my sides even though I’m itching to grab the handle of the door and bolt.
He turns, and the air is sucked from my lungs.
Theo.
