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It’s not from the cold.
I spot the mayor, and a late-night TV host who’s here with his B-list actress girlfriend. I also see two stars from the Knicks, the point guard from the Nets, and a Yankees pitcher. Also in attendance are celebrities of a far more notorious kind: Gavan Tsarenko, co-head of the Reznikov Bratva, along with his wife, Eilish, of the Kildare Irish mafia family. They’re in a group mingling with Eilish’s older sister, Neve, and her husband, Ares Drakos, head of the Drakos Greek mafia family.
I clear my throat, ignoring the tingle on my skin where Dante’s arm is touching mine.
“So, who exactly are we here to charm tonight?”
“As many people as possible.”
My brow furrows. “Is Venom that hard-up for money?”
He turns to smirk at me. “Hardly. You’ve seen the homes I own. Tonight is not just about the club.”
My brow arches as he sweeps me onto the dance floor. “What else is it about, then?”
Dante just cocks his brow a little, his mouth pointedly closed.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, comeon. Who am I going to tell?” I tap a finger against my temple. “This is a steel trap.” I grin wryly. “Actually, it’s a steel trap with a self-destruct button. Even better!”
He frowns.
I sigh, shrugging. “Gallows humor, remember?”
“I’m not sure I’m a fan.”
“Well, get on board.”
He shoots me a funny sort of dark look, but then shrugs it off. “I mean it’s not just about money or new investors. Venom also trades in favors, influence, information.”
I smirk. “You meanyoutrade in favors, influence, and information.”
“Well.” He flashes a grin. “IamVenom.”
“And here I was thinking I’d have to spend the whole evening suffering bad dick jokes from your brothers.”
Both of us turn to the deep baritone voice. I blink, looking up at an insanely handsome man who towers over even Dante. He grins a gleaming, shark-like smile as he shakes Dante’s hand firmly.
“Good to see you, my friend,” the man purrs in an Eastern European accent before turning his piercing gaze to me. He fixes me with a hunter’s smile as he takes my hand in his. I blush when he raises it, as if to kiss it. “And you must be?—”
“My wife.” Dante plucks my hand away forcefully from the other man, even if he’s still smiling. “Tempest.”
The other man chuckles and claps Dante on the back. “Indeed.” He turns to smile a much less wolfish grin at me, this timenotreaching for my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Black. Or is it Mrs. Sartorre?”
“Ms. Black,” I say.
“Mrs. Sartorre,” Dante says at the exact same time.
“Tempest,” Dante grunts. “This is Drazen Krylov, head of the Krylov Bratva, and a recently new resident of New York.”
I flash back to that luncheon, when the ladies I was sitting with were gabbing about the new-to-New-York Russian-Serbian Bratva kingpin whom they described as “God’s gift to the female gaze.” I gotta say…
They weren’t exactly wrong.
“Nice to meet you,” I smile, ignoring the granite look in Dante’s eyes as I reach out to shake Drazen’s hand.
Then I twist my gaze to Dante, frowning. “Wait, you have brothers?”
He makes a face. “No. I have two idiots who at times feel like brothers. But they’re not blood relatives. Carmine and Nico Barone, Don Vito’s sons.”
