Page 73 of Claimed At First Sight

He lets the silence stretch, every eye in the ballroom turning toward him. Including mine.

His gaze lands on me. And it stays there.

Every nerve ending in my body suddenly seems far too awake.

“What is he doing?” I ask Gabe under my breath, unable to look away from Maximo.

“Probably announcing your engagement.” He takes a slow sip of his drink, far too entertained by my discomfort.

“What?”

The blood drains from my face. I whip toward him so fast that I nearly spill my drink. Gabe just laughs.

“Relax. I’m joking. He’s making a toast.”

Right.

Except I wouldn’t put it past Maximo to do something insane, like publicly announcing I belong to him. The man practically breathes manipulation and strategic ambushes. For all I know, he’s about to unveil matching wedding rings and a priest.

People begin turning toward me. They study me with open interest, their curiosity piqued by the attention their Don is giving me.

My stomach churns.

Merda, I don’t want to become tonight’s entertainment.

I straighten my spine and force a pleasant smile onto my face. Maximo is no doubt enjoying watching me unravel.

But I won’t be playing his games.

Across the room, Maximo holds my gaze for another long second before finally letting his attention sweep over the guests.

It should make me feel better.

But it doesn’t. Because somehow, even while he’s addressing the entire ballroom, his eyes keep finding their way back to me.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I say to Gabe.

His grin widens. “Too scared to stick around?”

Yes.

“Never.”

His laughter follows me as I turn and weave through the crowded ballroom. I tune out Maximo’s voice, refusing to acknowledge the way it seems to caress my skin. Halfway to the doors, I make the mistake of glancing back.

He’s still speaking without missing a beat, but his eyes are on me again.

I keep my steps measured. Wouldn’t want to give him the impression I’m fleeing.

I’m simply not interested in whatever he has to say. I’ve heard enough birthday speeches glorifying oh-so-important mafia men to last me a lifetime.

The moment the doors close behind me, I let out a long exhale. Cool air brushes against my overheated skin as I step into the quieter corridor leading toward the terrace exit.

I need a minute. Maybe ten.

Preferably somewhere far away from the infuriating Chicago don and whatever game he thinks he’s playing with me.

I push outside into the winter night and instantly regret not grabbing my coat. Freezing wind cuts through the silk of my dress, making me shiver.