But the bite mark on his neck is visible.
It sits high on the tendon, a dark purple bruise that stands out violently against his pale skin. He hasn't covered it. No concealer. No high collar.
I stare at it. I put that there.
"You left the mark showing," I say.
"I did."
"That's..."
"Strategic." He meets my eyes in the glass. His gaze is cool, assessing. "Every person at this gala will see it. Every person will understand what it means. The Falcone-Kavanagh alliance is not political. It's physical. It's personal."
He steps closer. He reaches out and adjusts my lapel. His fingers brush my chest, a ghost of a touch that sends a jolt through me. He smooths the wool, his touch lingering.
"And it tells them that I belong to you," he says softly.
The words hit me in the chest.Belong.
I look at him. "You don't belong to anyone."
"Tonight I do." He steps back, looking me up and down. "You look dangerous."
"I am dangerous."
"I know. That's the point."
We take the black Audi. The driver is new—Rocco sent him. The car smells of leather and new car scent, a stark contrast to the blood and dust of the last twenty-four hours.
We sit in the back. Alessandro is checking his phone, scrolling through dossiers of the gala attendees. I watch the city roll by. The streets are wet with rain, the lights blurring into streaks of neon.
"Nervous?" Alessandro asks without looking up.
"I don't get nervous. I get ready."
He smiles faintly. "Good answer."
The Belmont Hotel looms ahead. Fourteen stories of limestone and old money. The entrance is a gauntlet—red carpet, velvet ropes, a wall of photographers shouting names.
The car stops. The door opens.
Alessandro exits first. The flashes go off like a strobe light, blinding white bursts. He stands on the sidewalk, buttoning his jacket, waiting. He looks perfectly at ease in the chaos.
I step out.
The noise hits me. Shouting. Shutters clicking like hail on a tin roof. The murmur of the crowd shifting.
The Reaper. Look, it’s the Reaper.
I ignore them. I walk to Alessandro.
He offers me his arm.
It’s a formal gesture. Old school. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then slide my hand through the crook of his elbow.
The contact is grounding. His arm is solid beneath the wool. We walk together, side by side, into the light.
"Smile," he whispers. "Or scowl. Whatever feels natural."
