4. Skye
4
SKYE
T he bass reverberates through my heels as I stride through The Vault's entrance, Kendra just ahead of me. Marco, who works for Nerio, gives us a quick nod and steps aside without checking our IDs. The line of waiting patrons shifts, their whispers following us inside. Being Jazz's friends comes with perks these days - and complications.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across the dark mahogany and leather interior. I weave between tables, catching fragments of hushed conversations that pause as I pass, trying to keep up with Kendra. A dealer I recognize from my boutique raises his glass in acknowledgment. I return the gesture with practiced grace, maintaining the delicate balance of courtesy without invitation.
Our corner booth awaits, partially hidden behind a curved partition that offers the illusion of privacy. Jazz sits rigid despite the plush cushions, her fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on her glass. The ice hasn't even started melting yet.
"There's our fashion queen." Mikayla slides over, her deep green dress a perfect contrast to the booth's black leather. I dropped Mikayla and Jazz's dresses off on my way to Kendra's and they look incredible. "Thank you so much, Skye."
"Anytime." But my eyes are on Jazz, catching the tension in her shoulders. Mikayla fidgets with her cocktail straw, her usual sunshine dimmed to a worried glance between us.
I settle in, smoothing my dress out. "Spill it, girl. What's got you wound so tight?"
Jazz's perfectly lined lips press together. Her curls are styled in that precise way that means she's been overthinking everything. "Nothing. Everything's fine."
"Please." I signal a waitress who appears instantly. "Dirty martini, extra olives."
Kendra leans forward, shaking her head. "Honey, that nothing is louder than these Versace heels."
"It's Nerio, isn't it?" Mikayla's voice drops to barely above a whisper, even though everyone knows better than to eavesdrop on this booth.
Jazz's fingers still on her glass. The massive diamond on her left hand catches the light, throwing fractals across the table. That ring might as well be a collar, marking her as untouchable - protected and possessed all at once.
Jazz twirls the ring, her dark eyes distant. "It's just... different now. The way people look at me, treat me. Like I'm made of glass they might shatter."
"Or like you might shatter them," Kendra adds, earning a sharp look from Mikayla.
I lean forward, studying the subtle changes in my friend's demeanor. The Jazz I know commands attention, owns every room she walks into. But there's a new edge to her movements, calculated and precise.
Mikayla cocks her head and studies Jazz. "Being with someone in the family changes things."
"Everything." Jazz takes a long sip of her drink. "The other night, I overheard Marco telling the new bartender that breaking a glass near me would be his last mistake. Like I need a warning label."
My martini arrives, and I pluck an olive, considering her words. They remind me of the two guys that were outside my boutique today. The blue-eyed man I saw as I left.
"You love him though." Mikayla's voice carries that touch of innocence she's somehow maintained despite all the shit this city throws at us.
Jazz's expression softens, vulnerability bleeding through her careful mask. "More than makes sense. He's... When we're alone, he's different. Still intense, still Nerio, but..." Her fingers trace the rim of her glass. "Last week, one of his associates made a comment about me. Just something stupid about women in charge. Before I could respond, Nerio had him against the wall. Didn't raise his voice, didn't even mess up his suit. Just said if the man ever questioned my authority again, he'd lose his tongue first, then his business."
"Romantic," Kendra mutters into her cocktail.
"That's the thing." Jazz's laugh holds no humor. "In his world? It was. He doesn't try to cage me or control me. He just... eliminates threats. Like it's as natural as breathing." She shakes her head. "I knew it was like this. I guess after everything that happened with Don Mantione…it's just a little more intense."
I think again of my mystery watcher, how his presence should frighten me but instead sends electricity down my spine. "The family doesn't do anything halfway, do they?"
Jazz huffs out a laugh. Mikayla reaches for her hand. "I'm sure he'll ease off. He was just worried about you."
She shrugs. "I shouldn't even be complaining. I have a man who loves me and wants to protect me." Her eyes light up at that. "I guess I just want more of him and less of his world. But it'll be alright."
The energy in The Vault shifts like a current through water. My skin prickles as three soldiers swagger through the entrance, their cheap suits and cocky grins marking them as clearly as a neon sign. Marco's shoulders tense, but he keeps his position, dark eyes tracking their every move.
"Shit." We all look at her. "They are Mantione."
Jazz's manicured nails pause mid-tap on her phone screen. Her other hand slides beneath the table - likely to the small .380 I know Nerio insists she carry. The screen lights up her face as she types, probably alerting her fiancé to our uninvited guests.
"Well, well. Look what the garbage truck dropped off," Kendra mutters, but I squeeze her knee under the table. Now isn't the time for her sharp tongue.
I doubt Nerio wants any Mantione men in his establishment. Not after what happened with Jazz. They kidnapped her after all.
I catalog details with the same precision I use to spot knockoff designer bags. The leader - broad-shouldered with a fresh cut across his jaw - gestures to the bar. His lackeys flank him like trained dogs, their eyes roving the club with predatory interest. One sports a gaudy gold chain that screams new money. The third keeps adjusting his sleeve, probably hiding a weapon.
The regular patrons shift away, conversations dying like snuffed candles. Even the music seems to pulse with added tension.
"Should we..." Mikayla starts, but Jazz cuts her off with a subtle head shake.
"Stay put. Moving draws attention." Jazz's voice carries the quiet authority that makes her exceptional at her job. She tracks the soldiers through lowered lashes while pretending to check her nails. "Besides, this is still Bueti territory. They wouldn't dare."
But I catch the slight tremor in her hand as she lifts her glass. Being Nerio's woman means wearing a target as much as that diamond. The soldiers' gazes sweep our corner, lingering a beat too long on Jazz. I resist the urge to shrink back, instead meeting their stares with the same cool disdain I reserve for customers who try to haggle at my boutique.
The leader smirks, raising his whiskey in a mock toast. Jazz's phone buzzes - Nerio's response, no doubt. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly as she reads, but her eyes never leave our unwelcome visitors.
A waiter approaches with fresh drinks, his practiced smile wavering as he glances at the Mantione soldiers. "Careful heading home tonight, ladies. Three shootings this week already." He sets down my martini. "Word is someone's making moves in the neighborhood."
The soldiers bark out laughs at some crude joke, but my mind races through conversations from my boutique. Yesterday, Mrs. Castellano dropped fifteen grand on designer bags while casually mentioning her husband moving their valuables to their lake house. The Vitelli sisters canceled their monthly styling appointment - first time in three years. And those guys today, watching...
"Jazz, I think I should tell you something. My clients have been-" The words die in my throat as I shift and I see ice blue eyes connect with mine in that split second.
He's there. At the bar. The same man who's been outside my shop, now close enough for me to see the predatory grace in how he holds himself. Expensive black suit that screams Italian tailoring. Dark hair swept back, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. But it's his eyes that freeze me. I've never seen anyone with such pale eyes, and they are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.
He lifts his whiskey, taking a deliberate sip without breaking eye contact. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I've seen dangerous men before - you don't survive in Chicago's fashion scene without learning to recognize them. But something about him is different. More controlled. More lethal. And while danger radiates off him, there's not an emotion on his face.
"Skye?" Jazz's voice seems distant. "What were you saying about your clients?"
I force myself to look away from those arctic eyes, but I can still feel them on my skin like a physical touch. "I... it's probably nothing."
The corner of his mouth curves up slightly, as if he knows exactly why I stopped talking. As if he's pleased by my silence.
"Someone's caught our queen's eye." Jazz's tension melts into a knowing smirk. The Mantione soldiers forgotten as she follows my gaze. "Damn. That's some suit."
"Brioni." The label rolls off my tongue automatically. "Custom, by the cut." I try to focus on the technical details rather than how his presence seems to consume all the oxygen in the room.
"The suit's what you're studying so hard?" Mikayla giggles, but it dies quickly when she really looks at him. Even she can sense the danger rolling off him in waves.
I watch as a drunk patron stumbles too close to his space at the bar. The man practically trips over himself backing away, though Mr. Dangerous hasn't moved a muscle. The crowd parts around him like water around a shark.
His fingers brush a watch on his wrist - a silver Rolex that peeks out from under his sleeve. The gesture should seem nervous, but on him it reads more like a predator flexing its claws. Testing them.
"It looks like he's found something he likes," Kendra observes.
"I'd be careful." Jazz's voice carries a weight that draws all our attention. "Especially with anyone you meet in here.”
I meet his gaze again, electricity dancing along my spine. His eyes haven't left me once, patient and calculating. Like he's solving a puzzle only he can see.
"Well?" Mikayla prompts. "Are you going to talk to him?"
"No." I take a slow sip of my martini, matching his steady stare. "He'll come to me when he's ready."
His lips curve into something too sharp to be called a smile, and I know I've passed some kind of test.