Four fucking years. And I still occasionally turned my head expecting to see him beside me. Still woke up some nights hearing snakes hissing. Still wanted Leo dead. Hatred had become a companion after that. Quiet. Constant. Familiar.
So I drank. I fucked. I smiled for the cameras. I played the role everyone expected because pretending was easier than letting people see what was underneath.
And underneath? Underneath I was just a man missing half his soul.
That night, the club breathed beneath me. From the private surveillance room overlooking the main floor, I leaned back in the leather chair and watched After Dark come alive through walls of camera feeds.
Amber light spilled across bodies moving in slow motion. Whiskey caught gold beneath hanging chandeliers. Shadows slid over black silk and bare skin and expensive suits. Bass rolled through the building like a pulse, low enough to feel in my bones.
People came here for a lot of reasons. To forget. To indulge. To disappear. Some came looking for trouble. Some came hoping trouble would find them.
My gaze drifted lazily across the screens until it stopped. Screen Seven. A brunette. Pretty little thing. And completely, catastrophically out of place.
I sat forward slowly. Three girls surrounded her, all glittering smiles and designer dresses, but I barely noticed them. My attention locked on the brunette standing in the middle.
Dark hair spilled over bare shoulders in soft waves. Her tiny black dress hugged curves just enough to make a man stare longer than he should. Big dark eyes darted around the room cautiously.
Not afraid. Confused. There was a difference. She looked like she'd walked through the wrong door and was too stubborn to admit it. Cute. Very fucking cute.
I watched her stare at a couple disappearing toward private rooms. She looked horrified. Then offended. Like the entire club had personally insulted her. Jesus Christ, I couldn't stop staring.
Marco glanced over from the chair beside me. Marco Colombo had been with me for eight years now. Right hand. Bodyguard. Professional babysitter against his will. Mid-thirties. Broad shoulders. Dark hair cut short enough to look military even though he'd never served. Permanent five o'clock shadow. Permanent expression of disappointment.
He wasn't family by blood, but after Angelo died, he had quietly become the closest thing I had left. Not that either of us would ever say that shit out loud.
Marco had a talent for surviving me. Which was impressive considering most people either feared me, lied to me, or ended up face down somewhere unpleasant.
He did none of those things. Mostly he just looked irritated.
He'd seen me drag models onto yachts in Monaco, disappear with actresses in Milan, start fights in clubs because somebody breathed wrong, and nearly put bullets into men over smaller things. Which meant he recognized danger signs before anyone else did.
Marco glanced at Screen Seven. Then slowly pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh no."
I looked at him. "What?"
He sighed heavily. "That face."
I frowned. "What face?"
"The face where somebody's about to become your problem,” he muttered.
I ignored him. Because I noticed something else about the pretty little brunette on that screen. Little details. The jewelry. The posture. The way she scanned exits without realizing she was doing it. The body language. The taught confidence.
Mafia. Definitely. Girls outside our world didn't move like that. Didn't carry themselves like they'd grown up surrounded by armed men and whispered threats over dinner tables.
No. She belonged to our world. But I didn't know her. Strange. I knew everyone. Especially daughters. Especially pretty daughters. And I would've remembered her.
I stood. Marco looked genuinely concerned now. "No."
I adjusted my cuffs. "No, what?"
"No, whatever psychotic thing you're about to do,” he said firmly.
I reached for the mask anyway. Black leather with red detailing. The Devil. The entire club knew the mask. Nobody knew me. Not here. I slid it over my face and smiled. Perfect.
The crowd shifted the moment I stepped onto the floor. People always moved. Always watched. I barely noticed. Because she was sitting alone at the bar now. Her friends had abandoned her completely. Traitors.
She crossed one leg over the other and looked around suspiciously, fingers tapping against her little clutch purse. Waiting. Annoyed. Cute.
