Mirage sat in the Meatpacking District, its entrance marked by a line of people still waiting to get in despite the late hour. I parked illegally, not giving a single fuck about the ticket I'd inevitably receive. Mac waited by the entrance, his tall figure instantly recognizable even from a distance.
He watched my approach with the careful neutrality that made him such a good detective. No judgment, no surprise, just calm assessment as I stalked toward him.
“De Luca.” He nodded once “Your wife's inside.”
“Is she okay?” I demanded, already moving toward the door.
Mac's hand on my arm stopped me. His grip was firm but not hostile. “She's drunk. Very drunk. But physically fine.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Calm down before you go in there. The last thing she needs is you causing a scene.”
I inhaled deeply, forcing air into lungs that felt too tight. “I'm calm.”
“No, you're not. But you're going to pretend to be.” He released my arm. “Isabella Rivera is with her. According to my contact, they've been approached by multiple men throughout the night. Currently, Isabella is talking with one guy by the bar. Your wife was there too but she’s since moved to the dance floor. There's a man who's been dancing with her for the last ten minutes.”
My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind. “And you're just standing out here?”
“I was waiting for you.” Mac's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. “But if you'd been five minutes later, I would have gone in and handled it myself.”
The implication was clear—he wouldn't have let anything happen to her. That knowledge should have soothed me. It didn't.
“Let's go.” I pushed past him toward the entrance, where the bouncer took one look at Mac's badge and stepped aside.
Inside, base pounded and vibrated up through the soles of my shoes, strobe lights fractured the darkness into disorienting flashes as bodies pressed together in a writhing mass on the dance floor.
Mac moved through the crowd with practiced ease, and I followed in his wake, my eyes scanning for Cecelia. We passed the bar where Izzy stood talking to a tall man in a designer shirt, she had her hand on his arm as she laughed at something he said. The moment she caught sight of us, her eyes widened before narrowing with what looked like irritation.
Before she could approach, Mac pointed toward the dance floor. “There.”
I followed his gesture and my heart stopped, then restarted with painful force.
Cecelia moved to the music with the fluid grace of the dancer she was. Her hair clung to her neck in damp tendrils, her skin glistening under the pulsing lights.
And there was a man behind her. Tall, well-dressed, his hands hovering near her waist as he tried to close the distance between them. Even from here, I could see her shaking her head and attempt to move away only to bump into another couple. The asshole took the opportunity to step closer, and his hands finally made contact with her body.
Something snapped inside me—an audible crack like ice breaking under too much pressure. I moved before I registered the decision to do so, shoving through the crowd with single-minded focus.
I reached them in seconds, grabbing the man's shoulder and yanking him backward with enough force that he stumbled. He almost fell before catching himself on a nearby table. My fist was already cocked back, ready to connect with his jaw, when a strong hand closed around my wrist.
“I'll handle this,” Mac said, his voice cutting through the music with quiet authority. He stepped between me and the man, his badge already out. “Walk away,” he told the stranger, who needed no further encouragement.
I turned to Cecelia. She swayed slightly as recognition dawned and her lips parted in surprise.
“Rafe?” She blinked up at me, her pupils huge. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking you home.” I reached for her arm to steady her. “How much have you had to drink?”
She giggled—an actual giggle, so unlike her usual sharp wit that it would have been charming under different circumstances. “I lost count after the fifth shot.” She swayed again, and I instinctively moved closer to catch her if she fell. “Or was it the sixth? Izzy would know.”
I exchanged a look with Mac over her head. “I've got her,” I told him. “Can you make sure Izzy gets home safely?”
He nodded once. “I'll handle it. Take care of your wife.”
Bending slightly, I scooped Cecelia into my arms. I expected her to protest, to fight me, to demand I put her down. Instead, she nestled her head against my shoulder as one hand came up to play with the collar of my shirt.
“You smell good,” she murmured, breath hot against my neck. “Like... expensive. Is expensive a smell? It should be.”
I navigated through the crowd toward the exit, acutely aware of every inch of her body pressed against mine.
“Where's your car?” she asked, her words slightly slurred.
