His hand finds my waist. Firm. Public. Unmistakable. The role locks into place.
I lean into him.
His thumb presses once against my hip. Approval or warning. With him, those things share too much blood.
“Better,” he murmurs near my ear.
“Don’t praise me.”
“Then stop earning it.”
I smile because cameras exist and because the woman I am pretending to be would smile if Stefano Savarese spoke that close to her ear.
The fact that the smile comes too easily is between me and whatever god has given up on this evening.
Inside, the club is all low light, varnished wood, dark glass, and controlled vice. Music moves beneath the floor more than through the air, a slow pulse from another room. Men sit in curved booths, with women draped beside them as proof of wealth. Staff appear exactly when needed and vanish before questions can attach to them.
The room sees Stefano and adjusts.
It is subtle. A glance. A shoulder shifting out of his path. A conversation lowering as we pass. Men with money and muscle making room for a man who doesn’t need to ask for space; he is simply given it. He keeps me close enough that it's difficult not to notice.
His palm stays at my waist as he guides me through the main room. When my gaze drifts too quickly toward the exits, his thumb presses against my hip. When a man near the bar looks at me too long, Stefano angles his body enough to interrupt the view. When I reach for a glass from a passing tray without thinking, his hand covers mine.
“Not that one,” he says softly.
I look up at him. “Poison?”
“Bad champagne.”
“How terrifying.”
“You should be grateful.”
“I’ll start a list.”
His mouth curves, but his eyes are already moving beyond me, reading the room, greeting men with nods so slight they feel like transactions.
A man steps into our path near the VIP corridor. I recognize him from the auction. Not his name. His mouth. The soft, satisfied shape of it as he watched women on stage and called it business. My stomach turns but I keep my face pleasant.
“Savarese,” he says, smiling too wide. “I wondered who left with the best prize of the night.”
Stefano’s hand tightens once at my waist.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to stop me from putting my heel through the man’s instep.
“Then wonder more quietly,” Stefano says.
The man’s smile wavers. Stefano doesn’t slow. He guides me past him as if the interaction was a stain he decided not to step in. I keep my smile in place until we are three steps away, then let it die.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask under my breath.
“Yes.”
“I had it handled.”
“I know.”
