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Madison Napolitano
I should have never looked into his eyes.
From across the bar, everything seemed so innocent. It was a simple hotel launch party, that’s it.
But I know that glance. I know he wants me.
I’m in his line of fire.
Great.
I leave before getting my drink, walking into the crowd of socialites and show-offs. Yes, another fundraiser for my late father’s company. Another money-bomb affair.
In my head, I can hear my father speaking. “We need this money to help people, Madison. We’re in the business of fixing things, not tearing the world apart.”
But I know better.
I know the kinds of dealings my father was into. When he was alive, he was corrupt. It’s hard to admit that sometimes, but it’s the truth.
This fundraising event is ridiculous. Since Dad’s death, bad people have hijacked the family business. His right-hand man, Byron Alfono, took over the estate.
I never trusted the guy, but that’s business, right? Still, I own a good chunk of the stock, so he’s sort of required to play nice. Once I lock eyes with him, I know I can’t run from a conversation I do not want to have.
Byron grabs my arm and forces me to talk to a group of billionaires from Russia and eastern Ukraine. “Enjoying the party, dear?”
“Oh, yes. Lovely party,” I whisper, throat parched.
I needed that drink earlier.
A waiter hands me a glass of champagne, and I take a sip. I glance over at the bar to find my mystery man. He’s gone. I scan the rest of the room, unable to find him.
One of the leading Russians leans forward, eyes on breasts. “What is it that you do, lovely? Or better yet, who do you do?”
A burst of laughter erupts from the crowd. It’s just another joke at my expense.
“My father was Gerard Napolitano. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make it in today,” I tell them.
I watch their smiles fade. They know how much power my father had. But they had no idea I was his daughter.
I gulp down the rest of my champagne and hand the empty glass to the baffled Byron. I walk away with haste.
As he scrambles to take engage in a new conversation, I walk toward some familiar faces. It’s a few classmates from business school. We’re all long past graduation, but we still support our old friendships as much as we can.
Still, to this day, Dasha is one of my best friends.
I take one of two glasses from her hands. “I’m so glad you made it,” I tell them.
“Hey,” she squeals. “That was mine.”
I take a big sip. “Not anymore,” I whisper.
Daniel, a shorter man with thick, rounded glasses, groans. “I came here to network, but it’s clear I’m not on their level.”
I smile. “They’re not the most accommodating,” I admit. “At least you’re putting in the effort. If you really need a job, I could always get you a position as a bell boy.”
“Great.” He sighs. “Sounds like the job of a lifetime.”
I shrug and grab a kabob as a caterer walks by. “I don’t know why you care so much about networking. You own your own business, and it’s doing great, Daniel.”
Dasha looks to my right, and I follow her eyes. “Madison, who is that guy who keeps glaring at you?” she asks. “My God, it’s almost like he’s trying to burn a hole through your head.”
I turn and feel my heart rate spike.
There he is. It’s that mystery man from the bar, the one who can’t keep his eyes to himself. He’s in the back corner now, taking small sips from his glass of brandy, alone.
I attempt to shrug the whole thing off. “Probably some guy my father did business with,” I say.
Deep down, I’m conflicted. Half of me wants to walk over to him, to demand he tell me who he is and why he won’t stop staring. The other half is begging me to leave the party entirely.
There are bad people here. I don’t need to get mixed up in something dangerous.
“He’s hot,” Dasha says. “You should talk to him.”
“I’m not talking to that guy,” I say, glancing over at him again. This time, he smiles, and I feel the blood rush to my face. “Oh Jesus, did he just see me look at him?”
She nods, smiling big. “Uh huh.”
I pull Dasha over to the catering section and pretend to look at the shrimp.
“What’s he doing now?” I ask. “Be careful. I don’t want him knowing something’s up.”
“He’s looking at you still. What do you expect?” she asks. “He’s practically drooling, hon.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say.
I glance over again. Fuck, he is hot. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s worth talking to. There are plenty of rich jerks who are hot.
