"You look beautiful, picciridda," Turi says.
"Thank you, Turi," she replies, her voice instantly softening.
I note the warmth in her smile. I note that it is not aimed at me. The reaction in my chest is irrational—Turi raised me, Turi is family—and yet some part of me, the part I do not list on the operational matrix, wants to clear the room of every man who is not me.
We slide into the spacious back seat of the SUV. The doors lock with a solid, reassuring thud. The tinted glass isolates us from the world. The dark leather interior immediately fills with the scent of mint and sweet basil. It is her signature scent. Crisp, green, intoxicating. It overrides the smell of the leather seats. It rewrites a variable I had locked years ago.
I reach across the center console and take her left hand.
She flinches slightly at the contact but does not pull away. The diamond ring catches the passing streetlights. My mother's ring. A ring that sat in a vault for as long as I can remember, waiting for the woman who could bring me to my knees.
"They will be looking for cracks in the performance," I say, keeping my voice low, authoritative. "They will be looking for hesitation. A fake engagement is a known tactic. We have to be flawless."
"I am a corporate litigator," she fires back, staring straight ahead at the privacy partition. "I lie to sociopaths for a living. I can handle a cocktail party."
"This is not a courtroom, Natalia. These men do not file motions. They bleed people out in soundproof basements. You need to understand the reality of what we are walking into."
She finally turns her head to look at me. The bravado is still there, but the edges are softening. "I understand. I read the briefing you left on the desk. Jeff owes Rourke. Rourke uses the debt to force Jeff to launder the cash through the transit hub. We are going to this gala to get close to Rourke’s financial backer. The cloning device you left with the files goes on his phone. Once we have the network keys, we can access the ledgers without touching the originals."
"Correct."
"And to do that, you need the backer distracted. You need me to be the shiny object."
Heat crawls up my neck. "No one looks at you as an object. You are the future of the Costa family. They will look at you with absolute fucking respect, or they will discover, very quickly, that I am the man who decides which of their contracts get honored next quarter."
She blinks, taken aback by the sudden, violent venom in my tone. The corporate lawyer in her is trying to parse the logic of my reaction. There is no logic. There is only the monster roaring in my blood.
The SUV slows, turning onto the cobblestone streets of the West Loop. The venue is an upscale art gallery, currently rented out for a private charity auction. The street is lined with black town cars and valets. Paparazzi crowd the velvet ropes near the entrance.
"Showtime," she whispers.
"Mine," I remind her, my grip on her hand tightening.
The valet opens her door. I am out of the vehicle a split second later, circling the back to claim her before anyone else can get too close. I wrap my arm firmly around her waist, my hand splayed wide over the black silk covering her lower back. I pull her flush against my side. The contact registers somewhere south of my ribcage and rewrites my pulse on the spot.
Flashbulbs erupt as we walk toward the entrance. Whispers spread through the crowd. Enzo Costa, the phantom fixer of the family, stepping into the light with a woman on his arm. It is unprecedented. It is a declaration of war cloaked in high society.
We surrender our coats and step into the main gallery. The space is all exposed brick, steel beams, and modern art that looks like spilled blood. Waiters in crisp black suits circle with trays of champagne. The low thrum of a jazz quartet plays in the corner.
My eyes scan the room, instantly cataloging the threats. Three of Rourke's associates near the bar. A Bellanti lieutenant talking to a city alderman by the west exit. Our target, the financial backer named Romano, holding court near a massive abstract painting in the center of the room.
I lean down, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Romano is at twelve o'clock. Dark suit, gray hair. We need to close the distance."
Natalia shivers against me. The slight tremor of her body is not from fear. It is a reaction to my proximity. The realization is a tactical liability I file away and do not solve.
"Lead the way, darling," she purrs, the sarcasm masked by a saccharine, adoring tone.
She is a terrifyingly good actress.
We navigate the crowd. Every step is agonizing. The friction of her hip against my thigh. The sway of her body. The scent of mint and sweet basil invading my lungs with every breath I take. I keep my palm anchored at the curve of her waist, my fingers occasionally tracing the bare skin exposed by the low cut of her dress.
We reach Romano. He is a slick, over-groomed rat in a custom suit. His eyes dart to me, widening in surprise, before landing on Natalia. The way he looks at her—a slow, assessing drag down—sets a fuse off in my blood.
I need to mark her. Right here. In front of him.
I murmur something for Romano to catch as I cup the back of Natalia's neck. She turns toward me automatically, eyes flying wide. Her hand comes up to my lapel on reflex. The questioning curve of her brow sayswhat are you doing.
I answer with my mouth.
