Page 37 of Brutal Heir

After looking at the screen one more time, I once again flipped the phone down on the table.

It was the right decision.

It was just the people pleaser in me that worried over how Sebastian would react. That was all.

I should just forget all about my brush with darkness and focus on the party and my new friends.

Forcing a smile, I raised my glass when someone else made another toast.

The lighting technician, Henri, who had helped me set up the lights in my photography studio, placed a plate of radishes in front of me. “You have to try this.”

I laughed. “Radishes? I hate to burst your bubble, but I’ve tried radishes before.”

Henri winked. “Not the French way.”

Unease settled in my stomach. He’d been flirtatious throughout the setup of the show. I’d flirted back but more in a co-worker, teasing fun, non-romantic kind of way.

Henri smeared some whipped butter on the radish and then sprinkled a dash of sea salt on it before holding it up to my mouth. I didn’t appreciate the intimacy of the awkward act, but I also didn’t want to seem rude.

I scanned the guests at the table to see if there was anyone who could run interference for me. No one paid us any attention. Mark hadn’t joined us, and Yelena had already left after her burly Russian husband whispered in her ear. Whatever it had been, it made her blush, and they'd immediately cut out.

Henri laughed while he moved the radish closer to my lips. “Go ahead and try it. Trust me. It’s good.”

A rush of cold air when the cafe door opened made me shiver. I leaned forward to accept the offered bite, figuring the longer I waited, the weirder it would become.

Then a voice behind me growled, “Don’t you dare open your mouth.”

A hand clamped over my wrist, hard enough to bruise, as lips brushed my ear. “Let’s go, Sabrina.”

Instinctively, I pulled back.

He clutched me tighter.

It should have repelled me. But instead—it burned.

What was wrong with me?

I was so fucked.

CHAPTER 11

SABRINA

Sebastian had found me.

From his clenched jaw to his furrowed brow, the man radiated rage.

The once-boisterous café stilled.

Even the musicians stopped playing, and all eyes turned to Sebastian Diamanti.

Behind me, my friends whispered in hushed tones, fragments of their conversation drifting to me.

"Diamonds."

"Mafia."

His firm hand settled on my shoulder. Warm, yet it chilled me to the bone—the touch of the devil himself.