I force myself not to run, because running draws attention. Running looks guilty. Vegas' back alleys are bad enough. I don't need to draw more attention to myself than my bedraggled form already does. It helps, though, people think I'm just another homeless person, looking for a handout. I cut through side streets, past tourists too drunk to notice me, past valet lines and neon reflections in puddles of spilled drinks. The Strip rises ahead of me like a mirage—lights, noise, excess—a city that eats people alive and calls it entertainment.
I disappear into it.
His casino dominates the block, all glass and steel and calculated arrogance. I slip into the shadows across the street, ignoring the way my heart is hammering and my breath is too shallow. Because even after all these years, even after the reason why, my stupid, stupid heart still flutters at the thought of him. He was more than a teenage crush. I tried to tell myself over the years that it was normal to pine for the father of my child. That it was normal to love him still. Only… what I feel for him is so much more than love.
I find a dark corner where no valet will see and chase me off. I wait. Bruised. Dirty. In pain. A woman who should know better. A woman out of options.
I stay here, in the dark corner, and wait for him to appear. He has to, at some point. Everybody leaves to go to work or the gym, or a date, or whatever else men do. I hate the waiting. Despite the pain in my feet, I move back and forth on them. If anybody sees me, I'll look like one of the drugged-out, crazy women I always give a wide berth. There is no way in hell anybody would let me into the casino looking like this. So I wait.
Time stretches the way it only does when fear and hope share the same space in your chest. Minutes thicken. My palms won't stay dry. I press them against the cool stone of the building just to feel something solid. The casino never really sleeps, but it does change its rhythm. Gamblers drift in and out beneath the towering glass façade, dressed in linen and silk and tailored confidence. Laughter spills from open doors, bright and careless.
I pull my thin sweater tighter around me. I'm hyperaware of every passing glance. Of security at the doors. Of the way the bouncers scan faces without seeming to.
The clink of chips carries on the air like music every time the entrance doors open. Each time they part, my pulse spikes. Not yet. Not him. Not for me.
A woman in a designer dress glides past with a man whose face I recognize—some actor. Someone whose smile is worth millions.
I haven't slept. I can feel it in the way my jaw aches from clenching. In the way my spine won't relax. I stand too straight, like I'm bracing for impact. If he doesn't let me in… If he won't see me… I swallow hard and wait.
The Strip hums, alive and hungry. Above me, the misting system hisses to life, and a fine spray settles over my skin.At first, it's a relief. The desert heat has been building slowly, sneaking up while I wasn't paying attention. But then the dampness sets in. My hair begins to frizz; curls loosen and cling to my neck. Fabric sticks to my ribs, tracing bruises I haven't had the luxury of acknowledging. My blouse darkens slightly, the thin material pressing closer with every breath. I shift my weight, pressing deeper into the shadows, feeling exposed anyway.
Everything about this place is designed to seduce: the way the lights reflect off the polished stone, the scent of expensive perfume, cold air, and money. The casino looms behind me, elegant and ruthless, a monument to control and excess.
I feel small.
And then a car pulls up. Black. Immaculate. My stomach drops so fast it feels like falling.
No.
Please—
My father's car.
He found me. I almost scoff at my own stupidity. One plus one and all that. He didn't become a senator because he underestimates people. Not even his own daughter. The car stops. The back door opens. Sean steps out.
The sight of him makes my skin crawl. He scans the area with lazy confidence, already knowing what he'll find. His gaze lands on me like a spotlight. I try to melt into the wall, to become part of the shadow, but it's pointless. He smiles at me, walks up to a valet, and says something, pointing at me like I'm misplaced luggage. Then he comes straight toward me.
My pulse roars in my ears. There's nowhere to run. The crowd is too thin here, the security too tight, the exits too far.
"Don't," I say, my voice shaking despite myself. "Don't touch me."
He grabs my arm anyway. His grip is iron. Possessive. Familiar in the worst way. I twist, and panic floods me. My head turns in a desperate plea to find someone, anyone… and then my eyes fall onhim.
Everything stops.
He's stepping out of the building, surrounded by men who move with purpose, with deference. The morning light catches him just right, outlining broad shoulders, sharp lines, the controlled violence in the way he holds himself.
He hasn't changed the way I feared. He's older, yes. Harder. Time hasn't softened him; it's refined him. The dangerous aura around him is unmistakable, heavier now, earned. The pictures of him didn't prepare me. Not even close. He's breathtaking.
Maybe because my body remembers him before my mind can catch up. Maybe because the world tilts slightly toward him, like it always did. Maybe because I've been holding my breath for ten years without realizing it.
Sean tightens his grip, muttering something sharp, impatient. Before I can stop myself, before I can think, I scream.
"MASSIMO!" The name rips out of me, raw and desperate and full of everything I never said.
This is for Amauri, I tell myself. For my son. But it's a lie. Because even without Amauri—even without fear—if I had ever been this close to him again, I would have screamed his name all the same.
Time stops. Not slows. It simply stops. All of it. The noise of the Strip fades into something distant and unreal. The clatter of chips, the murmur of gamblers, the hiss of the misters, all of it dissolves until there is only him.
