“Then why interfere?”
“Because every man in the room is watching every move you make.”
“So?”
“So I am not a man who lets others admire what belongs to him.”
“What belongs to you,” I repeat.
His mouth lowers near my ear again. “You object less convincingly when you’re playing along.”
“I’m collecting evidence, you know that.”
My step nearly falters, and his hand steadies me before anyone else can see it.
“Against me?”
“Against everyone.”
“Good girl.”
The VIP area is raised above the main floor by three shallow steps and partly hidden behind smoked glass. A few booths line the back wall. Men sit with drinks in their hands and violence hidden under expensive jackets. Women laugh when expected. Security stands close enough to intervene, far enough to pretend the room is civilized.
Leon O’Reilly sits in the center booth like a man trying to look unbothered and failing by inches.
He is handsome: dark blond hair, blue eyes, clean shave, expensive suit. He looks younger than his file and meaner than his photographs. Alice chose him once. Or was trapped by him. Or both.
I do not let myself wonder which version hurt her first.
His gaze lands on Stefano. Then on me. My lungs forget the job for half a second. Alice’s husband. Erin and Heath’s father. The man who told them their mother left. The man who was sending them away from Miami as if they were some sort of inconvenience.
My hand curls. Stefano feels the moment, his fingers shift at my waist. Not a comfort. A warning. A silent message to remember my role.
I do. But just barely.
Leon rises as we approach. The men around him follow a beat later, because hierarchy is its own language and none of them wants to mistranslate it.
“Savarese,” Leon says, spreading his hands. “I’m glad the evening worked out for someone.”
His eyes slide to me.
They linger.
Not with recognition. Not yet. With ownership’s cousin. Assessment. Appetite. The nonchalant entitlement of a man who has looked at women in cages and called it inventory.
Stefano’s voice goes very quiet.
“Keep your eyes where they belong, Leon.”
The room stills around us, and every man at the table hears the shift. So do I. The threat in Stefano’s tone is not loud; he doesn’t need volume to get his point across. A blade doesn’t have to shout to be sharp.
Leon’s smile holds for a second too long.
Then he lifts his gaze back to Stefano’s face. “No offense meant.”
Stefano doesn’t blink. “Then do not make me find one.”
A pulse beats hard in my throat.
