I risked a sip of the scotch.It burned exactly the way I needed it to, heat spreading through my chest and steadying my pulse.Not enough to dull my edge.Just enough to stop my hands from shaking.
The door opened again.
Everything changed.
I felt it even before I saw him -- the way conversations seemed to quiet, the subtle shift in posture from the other patrons, the bartender’s spine going straighter.Power did that.Real power, not the inherited kind that came with a family name.The kind that was earned through blood and brutality and the sort of reputation that made grown men nervous.
Then I saw him.
Dante De Luca moved through The Velvet Room like he owned it.Maybe he did.The De Lucas had their fingers in enough businesses that it wouldn’t surprise me.He was taller than I remembered, or maybe it was just the way he carried himself, like he took up more space than his actual physical form required.His suit was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored to broad shoulders and a frame that suggested violence barely leashed beneath expensive fabric.
Dark hair, dark eyes that scanned the room with the efficiency of someone who’d survived by never missing a threat.Sharp features that would have been handsome if they weren’t so hard.A jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite and set in permanent disapproval.
His gaze swept past my booth, then back.Locked on.
My breath caught.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked at by him.Or maybe I’d never fully experienced it before, those previous encounters too brief and too public for this kind of focused attention.Now, with nothing between us but dim lighting and expensive air, I felt the full weight of it.
He started toward me.
The couple who’d been seated earlier shifted in their booth, the man tracking Dante’s movement with the wariness of prey watching a predator pass.One of the suits at the bar turned away entirely, suddenly very interested in his drink.Even the servers seemed to fade into the shadows, giving him clear passage.
He moved with the kind of grace that came from training, from years of being the one who did the dirty work rather than ordering it done.Each step was deliberate, controlled.Nothing wasted.Nothing uncertain.
My pulse kicked up.I could feel it in my throat, in my wrists, in my temples.The air in the booth suddenly felt too warm despite the bar’s carefully maintained cool temperature.
He reached the table.Stood there for a moment, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t read.Then, with movements as deliberate as his approach, he unbuttoned his suit jacket.The gesture should have been innocuous.Wasn’t.
He sat.
The booth seemed to shrink.He wasn’t even that close -- the table between us provided a buffer -- but his presence filled the space in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness.The expensive cologne he wore mixed with something else.Leather and metal and danger.
“Caterina Lombardi.”His voice matched everything else about him.Low, controlled, with an edge that suggested violence was always an option.
I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes even though every instinct screamed at me to look away.“Thank you for coming.”
“You have five minutes to tell me why I shouldn’t walk out.”He leaned back, one arm draped along the top of the booth, the other resting on the table.Relaxed posture that was anything but relaxed.“I don’t take meetings with Lombardis.”
“I’m aware.”My voice came out steadier than I felt.Small victory.“Which is why I’m hoping you’ll make an exception.”
His gaze never left my face.Didn’t drift to the neckline of my dress or the way my fingers had curled around the scotch glass again.Just studied me with an intensity that made me feel simultaneously exposed and invisible.
“Four minutes,” he said.
A server materialized at the table’s edge, setting down a drink I hadn’t seen Dante order.Bourbon, from the color.Neat.The server vanished again without a word.
Right.This was happening.No more time for second thoughts or careful planning.Just the pitch I’d rehearsed a hundred times in my head and the desperate hope that I hadn’t miscalculated everything.
I took a breath.“I have a proposal for you.One I think you’ll find mutually beneficial.”
His expression didn’t change.Didn’t encourage or discourage.He just waited, patient as death.
“My father wants to marry me off to Marco Vitale.”The words tasted bitter.“I’m here to offer you an alternative arrangement.”
Still nothing.He could have been carved from stone for all the reaction he showed.
I pressed on.“I need a husband my father can’t refuse.You need legitimacy with the old families.I’m proposing we give each other exactly what we need.”
