"How fascinating," I reply, my tone suggesting it's anything but. "I look forward to discussing the concept of punctuality with him."
The next hour passes in a blur of strategic conversations. I speak with a senator about international trade policies that impact our legitimate businesses. I charm the wife of a hedge fund manager who launders money for both our families. I allow a police commissioner to believe his flirtation is successful while extracting information about ongoing investigations.
All the while, I'm acutely aware of Rafa's absence—a void in the carefully choreographed spectacle around me.
Until suddenly, he's there.
The double doors open without ceremony, and Rafa strolls in as if arriving at a casual dinner rather than his own engagement announcement. His tuxedo is clearly expensive but rumpled, as though he'd put it on in a hurry or perhaps slept in it. His hair is tousled—not in the carefully styled way of men who spend fortunes on appearing effortlessly disheveled, but genuinely unkempt. A shadow of stubble darkens his jaw.
He looks like he's been coding for forty-eight hours straight and remembered the party as an afterthought.
And yet.
Even in this state—especially in this state—there's something magnetic about him. A dangerous intelligence burns in his eyes as they sweep the room, assessing and calculating in a way that feels eerily familiar. His movements have the controlled precision of someone who knows exactly how much space he occupies.
Our eyes lock across the ballroom, and everything else blurs into insignificance. In that moment of connection, I recognize something I wasn't prepared for—a mirror. He looks at me the same way I look at the world: seeing patterns, vulnerabilities, escape routes.
For three electric seconds, we simply stare at each other, a silent communication passing between us that feels more intimate than it has any right to be.
Then his gaze shifts deliberately to my dress, traveling the length of my body with such focused intensity that I feel it like a physical touch. When his eyes return to mine, one corner of his mouth lifts in what might be appreciation or challenge or both.
Vito strides across the room to his brother, his smile tight with controlled anger. They exchange words I can't hear, but the tension in Vito's shoulders tells me all I need to know. Rafa's late arrival wasn't just tardiness—it was a calculated move—a small rebellion.
"Interesting strategy," Nicolai murmurs beside me. "Showing up looking like that."
"He's sending a message," I reply, watching as Vito attempts to straighten his brother's bow tie. At the same time, Rafa stands immobile, allowing the correction with the indulgence of someone humoring a child.
"To whom?"
"To everyone." I sip my champagne. "Especially me."
"And what's the message?"
I consider this as I watch Rafa extricate himself from his brother's adjustments and begin making his way across the room—not toward me, as protocol would dictate, but toward the bar.
"That he doesn't care about any of this. That he's above it. That appearances or expectations can't control him." I pause. "Or maybe that he was up all night trying to trace my digital footprint in the financial systems and lost track of time."
Nicolai's eyebrow rises a fraction. "You admire it."
"I recognize it," I correct him. "There's a difference."
Across the room, Rafa accepts a tumbler of what appears to be Scotch , his posture deliberately casual as he surveys the crowd. His eyes find me again, and this time there's a calculated challenge in them. He raises his glass in a mocking toast but makes no move to approach me.
The insult is subtle but clear: he expects me to come to him.
Fat chance.
"If you'll excuse me, I need a drink," I say to Nicolai,
I turn and make my way to the bar at the opposite end of the room from where Rafa stands, feeling his eyes tracking my movement. The silk of my dress whispers against the floor with each step, a sound like secrets being traded. People part as I walk by.
"Vodka. Neat," I tell the bartender, who nods and turns to prepare it.
Let him come to me, I deliberately keep my back to the room. Let him wonder who I am beneath the perfect exterior. Let him chase what he thinks he can catch.
The game is just beginning, and I've always been a better player than most men expect me to be.
CHAPTER 6
