Ouch.
I say it with nothing but love. Call me later with a full report, and you’d better have a sexy story to tell me.
I stuff my phone back into my bag and walk into the ballroom, which is a blur of sparkling crystal chandeliers and designer gowns. I grab a champagne flute from a passing server and scan the room.
I spot my mother first. She’s holding court near the stage, looking elegant in navy silk. But her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It never does at these things. She worries too much, about my father and Luna, about me, and about the invisible threads that tie us to a world she chose to marry into.
The one I ran from.
My father is next to her, shaking hands with men in expensive suits.
Francesco DiMicheli. Businessman. Philanthropist. At least, that’s what the speaker program said in the email Dad sent.
But I know what he really is. I’ve always known.
I just chose to build something separate and different.
Near my father, I spot Vincenzo — Zio Vinnie, as Luna and I called him growing up. He’s been my father’s right hand for as long as I can remember, more uncle than employee. He scans the room the way he always does, alert with one hand resting near his jacket. Just in case. Always on guard. Always in protector mode.
He catches my eye and gives me a nod and a wink. I wave at him.
Taking another look around, I see that there are plenty of potential clients in this room. It’s filled to the brim with the Boston elite, and I don’t ever waste good opportunities to snag new clients for my consulting firm. So I make my rounds, shake hands, make small talk, and pitch my services.
But something feels off.
It takes me a minute to figure out what. Then my gaze latches onto a man standing at the bar.
And he’s watching me.
He’s tall and built with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s also younger than most of the men here, maybe in his late twenties. His tuxedo fits too well to be a rental, but he’s not running around flaunting his god-like form. He’s not drinking either, just holding a glass and watching.
Not the room.Me.
I blink and look away. I must be imagining it. He’s too young to be looking at me like that.
My eyes betray me and flit back toward him. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
Nope, definitely not imagining it.
But there’s something about the way he stares. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by dangerous men. I know what they look like, how they move, and the air of confidence they have that comes from knowing exactly how much damage they can do.
This guy screams everything I should be afraid of.
Our eyes meet across the room.
My heart stutters and stalls for a long second.
He doesn’t look at me the way men usually do. They don’t really see me; they’re just interested in my wealth and connections. They look at me like they’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the effort, or if my barracuda reputation is better left in a boardroom.
But this man looks at me like he’s trying to confirm something, like which piece of a puzzle I can fit into.
Then he looks away, and my chest deflates when I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
Who the hell is that?
I should let it go. I have more potential clients to schmooze. And I want to check on my mom before Dad takes the stage for his speech.
But I can’t forget that man and his eyes. Especially his eyes. Blue ice that penetrated with the power to peel away layers, layers I don’t ever want exposed.
