“But Cal, think about it, will you? The auction?—”
“I can’t do it,” I insist. “But thanks,” I add over my shoulder as I start walking as fast as I can back toward the entrance, fighting the urge to break into a run. Running will attract attention.
I’m weaving through the crowd, almost to the exit, when I slam directly into a wall of muscle.
Hands close around my arms. Huge hands. Familiar hands. And a voice I’d recognize anywhere, because I’ve been hearing it in my head since last night, tumbling around in the back of my brain.
“You really do need to watch where you’re going.”
I look up slowly, inevitably, into the face of the Giuliano.
He towers over me—broader, older, harder, making me feel small and helpless despite my athletic build. And those dark eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes me dizzy.
“Found you,” he says, low and intimate, like we’re lovers meeting after a long separation. “And this time I won’t let you run off.”
My body betrays me completely with a rush of blood to the groin. “Let me go,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to act like the man I was raised to be—a Clemenza, a prince of this city, not the frightened rabbit from last night, squeaking and struggling.
His grip shifts, thumbs stroking over my shoulders in a mockery of comfort. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” He smiles. “Not here, anyway.”
“You’re making a scene,” I choke out, acutely aware that the other club-goers are pushing past without even glancing our way.
“Am I?” He glances around with theatrical surprise, then leans down until his mouth is level with my ear. “Then maybe we should take this somewhere more private.”
Every survival instinct I have screams danger, but my body responds to his proximity with strange eagerness. I cansmellhim—his cologne, expensive and dark, and his own scent beneath, some kind of pheromone that makes me want to lean in instead of pulling away.
My brain finally starts catching up. Two meetings in two days. It’s not a coincidence. I try to pull away again. “I need to go.”
His expression shifts, frustration flickering across his features. “You’re in way over your head with people like Jesse fucking Foster.”
“There a problem here?”
I could die with relief. A bouncer has walked up, seeing a potential problem. The Giuliano’s grip loosens a fraction. “No problem,” he says.
The bouncer’s eyes narrow. “Kismet’s policies are clear, sir.Allguests are to feel safe and comfortable in this establishment. This—” he flicks a finger between us “—doesn’t look comfortable.”
Something passes between the two of them. The hands fall away from my arms. “I’d hate to think I was making anyone uncomfortable,” the Giuliano says.
Is that irony in his voice?
I should run. Disappear into the crowd and put as much distance as possible between myself and this dangerous man who’s been stalking me through the city.
But I find myself rooted to the spot, staring up at him as he stares back. The blaze in his eyes hasn’t diminished. If anything, it’s intensified, as though being denied has only made him want me more.
The bouncer leans in to the Giuliano and says, “Why don’t you come with me and have a drink on the house.Sir.” It’s not a suggestion. But it’s also clear that the bouncer knows exactly who he’s dealing with. I get the feeling things would escalate, otherwise.
Reluctantly, my stalker steps back. But his eyes never leave me, even as I melt into the crowd, pushing toward the exit with trembling hands. I canfeelthat gaze burning into my back.
His ghost follows me out of the club, down into the subway as I jump the turnstile, the sound of his voice echoing in my head as I find a shadowy corner off the main platform to collapse in.
The systematic elimination of my Family, the careful way someone’s been picking us off one by one—it would take time, planning, resources. It would take the patience of a man happy to stalk his prey for weeks, learning patterns, vulnerabilities, fears.
A man powerful enough that even Morelli-aligned security treats him with wary respect.
The Giuliano looked at me like Ibelongedto him. Acted as though that bouncer was asking him to give up something he’d earned, something rightfully his.
I touch my arms where his hands held me, imagine those bruises deepening. Ifhe’sthe one killing us all, then I’m as good as dead. But another part of me, a shameful part, remembers the dirty promise in his voice when he said we should find somewhere private.
I must be a special kind of stupid to feel drawn to the man most likely to murder me.
