Chapter 7 #2
It is subtle. A glance. A shoulder shifting out of his path. A conversation lowering as we pass. Men with money and muscle making room for a man who doesn’t need to ask for space; he is simply given it. He keeps me close enough that it's difficult not to notice.
His palm stays at my waist as he guides me through the main room.
When my gaze drifts too quickly toward the exits, his thumb presses against my hip.
When a man near the bar looks at me too long, Stefano angles his body enough to interrupt the view.
When I reach for a glass from a passing tray without thinking, his hand covers mine.
“Not that one,” he says softly.
I look up at him. “Poison?”
“Bad champagne.”
“How terrifying.”
“You should be grateful.”
“I’ll start a list.”
His mouth curves, but his eyes are already moving beyond me, reading the room, greeting men with nods so slight they feel like transactions.
A man steps into our path near the VIP corridor. I recognize him from the auction. Not his name. His mouth. The soft, satisfied shape of it as he watched women on stage and called it business. My stomach turns but I keep my face pleasant.
“Savarese,” he says, smiling too wide. “I wondered who left with the best prize of the night.”
Stefano’s hand tightens once at my waist.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to stop me from putting my heel through the man’s instep.
“Then wonder more quietly,” Stefano says.
The man’s smile wavers. Stefano doesn’t slow. He guides me past him as if the interaction was a stain he decided not to step in. I keep my smile in place until we are three steps away, then let it die.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask under my breath.
“Yes.”
“I had it handled.”
“I know.”
“Then why interfere?”
“Because every man in the room is watching every move you make.”
“So?”
“So I am not a man who lets others admire what belongs to him.”
“What belongs to you,” I repeat.
His mouth lowers near my ear again. “You object less convincingly when you’re playing along.”
“I’m collecting evidence, you know that.”
My step nearly falters, and his hand steadies me before anyone else can see it.
“Against me?”
“Against everyone.”
“Good girl.”
The VIP area is raised above the main floor by three shallow steps and partly hidden behind smoked glass.
A few booths line the back wall. Men sit with drinks in their hands and violence hidden under expensive jackets.
Women laugh when expected. Security stands close enough to intervene, far enough to pretend the room is civilized.
Leon O’Reilly sits in the center booth like a man trying to look unbothered and failing by inches.
He is handsome: dark blond hair, blue eyes, clean shave, expensive suit. He looks younger than his file and meaner than his photographs. Alice chose him once. Or was trapped by him. Or both.
I do not let myself wonder which version hurt her first.
His gaze lands on Stefano. Then on me. My lungs forget the job for half a second. Alice’s husband. Erin and Heath’s father. The man who told them their mother left. The man who was sending them away from Miami as if they were some sort of inconvenience.
My hand curls. Stefano feels the moment, his fingers shift at my waist. Not a comfort. A warning. A silent message to remember my role.
I do. But just barely.
Leon rises as we approach. The men around him follow a beat later, because hierarchy is its own language and none of them wants to mistranslate it.
“Savarese,” Leon says, spreading his hands. “I’m glad the evening worked out for someone.”
His eyes slide to me.
They linger.
Not with recognition. Not yet. With ownership’s cousin. Assessment. Appetite. The nonchalant entitlement of a man who has looked at women in cages and called it inventory.
Stefano’s voice goes very quiet.
“Keep your eyes where they belong, Leon.”
The room stills around us, and every man at the table hears the shift. So do I. The threat in Stefano’s tone is not loud; he doesn’t need volume to get his point across. A blade doesn’t have to shout to be sharp.
Leon’s smile holds for a second too long.
Then he lifts his gaze back to Stefano’s face. “No offense meant.”
Stefano doesn’t blink. “Then do not make me find one.”
A pulse beats hard in my throat.
For the first time tonight, I am not sure where the performance ends.
Leon gives a short laugh, smooth enough to pass in a room filled with men pretending not to notice he has been corrected. “Protective already. That must have been one hell of a night.”
Stefano’s hand slides from my waist to my hip, guiding me closer. “I make good investments.”
I make myself smile.
It costs more than it should.
Leon’s gaze turns to me again, faster this time. Careful. He learned. Not enough, but some. “And you, sweetheart? Adjusting well?”
Every cell in my body wants his blood.
I place my hand on Stefano’s chest instead.
The motion is delicate. Intimate. A lover’s touch, not an agent’s restraint. I feel Stefano glance down at my fingers, and for one vicious second, I hope he understands exactly how much discipline this costs me.
I look up at Leon through my lashes and smile like the woman I am pretending to be.
“He has better manners than the auction promised.”
One of the men near Leon coughs into his drink.
Stefano’s hand tightens on my hip. Both a caution and approval.
Leon’s smile thins. “Sharp mouth.”
Stefano answers before I can. “I enjoy it.”
Heat climbs in my throat. Bastard.
Leon studies him now more than me, which is helpful, though uncomfortable. “You enjoy expensive problems, then.”
“Only when they are worth the price.”
“And was she?”
Stefano looks at me. Not Leon. Me. His thumb moves once against my hip. “More than expected.”
I hate that my body understands the role faster than my mind can reject it. I lean into him because that is what she would do. The purchased woman. The chosen woman. The woman who survived because a monster decided she was worth keeping.
Stefano’s gaze darkens.
For everyone else, it probably looks intimate.
To me, it feels like stepping closer to the edge of a blade sharp enough to cut me open.
We sit as Leon gestures to the booth beside him, I end up beside Stefano, his arm draped along the back of the seat behind me. He doesn’t touch my shoulder at first. He doesn’t need to. The threat of his hand is almost worse than the touch itself.