Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Nico
These galas are necessary torture.
I stand against the far wall, whiskey in hand, watching the room like I'm searching threats. Which I am. Old habit. Can't turn it off even when the biggest danger is death by boredom.
The Moretti Foundation's annual charity event.
Crystal chandeliers throw fractured light across marble floors.
Women in designer gowns. Men in tuxedos.
Everyone smiling, laughing, pretending they give a damn about whatever cause we're supposedly supporting tonight.
Sick kids? Clean water? I stopped paying attention three speeches ago.
This is the game. The facade.
We show up. We write checks with lots of zeros. We shake hands with politicians and business moguls who pocket our donations and look the other way when shipments move through ports they're supposed to be monitoring.
We pose for photographs that'll run in tomorrow's society pages, and everyone sees exactly what we want them to see.
The Sartori family. Construction empire. Philanthropists. Pillars of the community.
Not the guns. Not the bodies. Not the blood I scrubbed from my knuckles three nights ago.
Funny thing about civilians—they don't want to know. They see the money, the suits, the charitable donations, and they fill in the blanks with whatever makes them comfortable.
Must be old money. Must be smart investments. Must be luck.
They never ask where it comes from. They just assume they weren't born lucky enough to have it themselves.
Easier that way.
I take another sip of whiskey. At least the bar's decent.
"Nico."
I don't need to turn to know who it is.
Amelia slides into my peripheral vision like she was born to command attention. Red dress, legs that go on forever, showcased by a slit that climbs dangerously high. Dark hair swept over one shoulder. Full lips painted the same shade as the dress.
She's beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful.
And I feel absolutely nothing.
"Amelia." I nod, keeping my eyes on the room.
She moves closer. Her fingers brush my arm. "You've been avoiding me."
Have I? I hadn't thought about her enough to actively avoid her. "Busy."
"Too busy to return a text?"
I finally look at her. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes lined in black. A smile that promises things she's already delivered. Twice.
"Construction doesn't run itself."
Her laugh is musical and flat. "You're always working." She leans in, drops her voice. "I was hoping we could find somewhere... quieter."
I remind myself the code I have.
Keep it physical. Keep it simple. Keep it meaningless.
Amelia checks every box. Willing. Discreet. No expectations beyond the obvious. We've fucked, and it was fine. Efficient. She knows how to move, knows what she wants, doesn't pretend it's anything more than two people scratching an itch.
But standing here now, her hand on my arm, her body angled toward mine like an invitation—
I feel nothing.
Not desire. Not interest. Not even the familiar numbness I've learned to accept as close enough to satisfaction.
Just... nothing.
"Not tonight," I say.
Her smile falters. Just for a second. Then she recovers, because women like Amelia always recover. "Another time, then."
"Maybe."
We both know I don't mean it.
She holds my gaze a moment longer, searching for something. Whatever she's looking for, she doesn't find it. Her hand drops from my arm.
"You know where to find me." She turns, red dress swirling, and disappears back into the crowd.
I watch her go. She'll find someone else before the night's over. Some investment banker or tech CEO who'll appreciate those endless legs and that practiced laugh.
I drain my whiskey.
The problem isn't Amelia. The problem is me.
I don't get to want things anymore.
Across the room, my mother laughs at something Valentino says. Vittoria stands nearby, checking her phone again. Carmela is deep in conversation with some woman.
My family. Playing their parts. Keeping up appearances.
I signal the bartender for another whiskey.
It's going to be a long night.
Kristen
I weave through the crowd with my tray balanced perfectly, smile fixed in place like it's been painted on.
Smile. Nod. Be invisible.
The mantra loops through my head on repeat. Same one I used for years with Jack.
A woman in head-to-toe black dress plucks a glass without acknowledging me. She turns back to her companion, laughing at something that definitely isn't funny, because rich people laugh differently. Louder. Like they're performing for an invisible audience.
God, I hate these events.
Not the work itself. It's the pretending that grates against my bones. Pretending I'm happy to serve. Pretending these people aren't looking right through me.
A man in a tailored tuxedo brushes past, too close, his hand grazing my hip. His eyes never meet mine as he rejoins his wife.
I swallow the familiar bitter taste and keep moving.
You're furniture. You're wallpaper. You don't exist.
The ballroom is gorgeous, I'll give it that. Fresh flowers everywhere. White roses and lilies.
I pause near a pillar to let a group pass, adjusting the weight of my tray.
Jack would have loved this.
The thought slithers in before I can stop it.
He would have thrived here. Working the room with that easy smile, shaking hands, making everyone feel like they were the most important person he'd ever met. Jack had a gift for that. Making people adore him. Making them see exactly what he wanted them to see.
"You look tired, Kris. Maybe skip the lipstick tonight. It's making you look washed out."
His voice echoes in my skull, soft and concerned. Always so concerned.
"I just want what's best for you, baby. You know that."
Behind closed doors, he'd spend an hour checking my flaws. My hair was wrong. My dress was cheap. I talked too much at dinner. I embarrassed him in front of his friends.
But in public? In public, Jack Walker was perfect.
The first time it happened I convinced myself I'd imagined it. Misunderstood. Maybe I had been annoying at dinner. Maybe the dress was unflattering. He was only trying to help me improve.
It took three years to realize the truth: there was no improvement good enough. The goalposts moved every time I got close. And the smiling, charming man everyone else saw?
He didn't exist.
A waiter bumps my elbow, snapping me back to the present. "You okay?"
"Fine." I paste the smile back on. "Just needed a second."
He nods and disappears into the crowd.
I scan the room, looking for empty glasses to collect. Near the bar, an older woman holds court with two younger men, her laugh sharp as broken glass. She gestures with a champagne flute, dismissing whatever one of the men just said.
Power move. I recognize it.
Across the room, a cluster of men in dark suits stand apart from the crowd.
One of the men catches my attention. Younger than the silver-haired one, maybe late twenties. Dark hair pushed back.
His gaze sweeps past me without pausing.
Furniture. Wallpaper.
It's always funny realising that I could lay dead here and no one woud give a damn.
I circle back toward the kitchen, tray nearly empty. My feet ache in these cheap flats, and the smile is starting to hurt my cheeks.
The kitchen is chaos. Steam, shouting, the clatter of dishes.
I drop off my empty tray and grab a fresh one loaded with champagne flutes. My fingers are steadier now. The brief break helped.
"Table seven needs refills," someone barks.
I nod and push back through the swinging doors into the ballroom.
I scan the crowd and you can tell that something's going on.
Near the center of the room, a cluster of people stand frozen. Not mingling. Not laughing. Just... staring.
A woman in a gown clutches her throat.
Oh God.
Her face is turning red. Purple at the edges. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.
No sound comes out.
The champagne flutes rattle on my tray as I shove it onto the nearest table. Glass tips. Liquid splashes. I don't care.
I'm already moving.
A man circles behind the woman, his hands hovering uselessly near her shoulders. He looks like he's about to attempt something but his movements are hesitant. Uncertain.
He doesn't know what he's doing.
"I've got it!" The words rip from my throat before I can think. "Make some space!"
People scatter like startled pigeons.
I slide between bodies, elbowing a man in a thousand-dollar suit out of my way. The man steps back but not much.
The woman's eyes are bulging now. Tears streak her mascara.
Focus. You've done this before.
I position myself behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. My right hand forms a fist just above her navel. Left hand covers it.
One. Two. Three.
I thrust upward and inward. Hard.
Nothing.
Again.
The woman's body jerks against mine. She's smaller than me.
Come on. Come ON.
Third thrust.
Something dislodges.
The woman coughs violently, doubling over. A piece of shrimp lands on the floor.
She sucks in a ragged breath. Then another.
Thank God.
I keep my hands on her shoulders, steadying her as she trembles. "You're okay. Just breathe. Slow breaths."
She nods, still coughing, one hand pressed to her chest.
"Nico." Her voice comes out scratchy. Broken. "Nico."
Movement to my left.
The man steps forward from the crowd.
The woman reaches for him, and he takes her hand immediately. His other palm cups her face, tilting it up, examining her like she's something precious. Something breakable.
"Mamma." The word is soft. Italian?
The woman clutches his forearm. "I'm fine, I'm fine. This girl—" She gestures weakly toward me. "She saved me."
And then he looks at me.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
His eyes are almost black. They sweep over me once and I feel seen in a way that makes me want to vanish.
I become suddenly, painfully aware of my cheap uniform. The sweat dampening my hairline. The champagne stain on my sleeve from when I shoved the tray aside.
Invisible. I was supposed to stay invisible.
The entire ballroom has gone quiet. Hundreds of eyes fixed on me. The server. The nobody. The woman who just made a scene at the most exclusive event in town.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Run, some primal part of my brain screams. Run now.
But my feet won't move.
Nico's gaze holds me pinned like a butterfly under glass.
"What's your name?" His voice is low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you lean in to hear it.
The kind of quiet that makes you very, very afraid.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Say something. Anything. Don't just stand here like an idiot.
"Kristen." The word scrapes past my dry lips.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't thank me. Doesn't do any of the things normal people do when a stranger saves their mother's life.
He just watches.
His mother talks to him and that's the moment I needed.
I run.