Chapter 8 – Lazaro
The grand dining hall inside the Virelli penthouse is a masterpiece of calculated opulence—crystal chandeliers reflecting off mirrored walls, the table set with bone-white porcelain and gold-rimmed goblets. The scent of truffle oil, seared meats, and aged wine saturates fills the room, cloaking everything in decadent warmth. Conversation weaves through clinks of glass and the soft scrape of utensils against fine china. It’s a performance—and every person here is playing a role.
I walk in late. By design. Power doesn’t rush.
The room quiets slightly when I enter. Eyes lift, half in greeting, half in calculation. These are men who’ve slit throats while sipping champagne, who’ve negotiated peace over the corpses of rivals. Capos, arms dealers, political intermediaries—everyone here carries blood beneath their cufflinks.
But it’s not them I’m looking at.
It’s her.
She’s stunning and she damn well knows it. The dress I had sent up to her suite this morning clings to her in all the right places—a white midi dress, square neckline, back entirely exposed. Her tattoos spill down her arms and shoulder blades like inked fire, bold and unapologetic. I know exactly why I chose a dress that would put them on display. I want them to see she’s not just another pretty face. I want them to see that this woman carries steel beneath silk—inked stories that don’t beg for acceptance but demand respect.
Her hair falls in soft waves, loose and untethered, and her makeup is barely there—just enough to highlight the sharpness in her eyes and the curve of her mouth. She looks untouchable. And dangerous.
Lucrezia, across the table, is draped in navy velvet and diamonds, her silver chignon glinting beneath the lights. Always the strategist, always the quiet observer. Riven isn’t here. I haven’t seen him all day. He’s likely at the estate. Or avoiding this. It doesn’t matter.
I take my seat beside Calista. She keeps her eyes forward, but I catch the faint flush in her cheeks. She’s tense—body rigid, like she’s bracing for impact.I rest my hand gently on her thigh beneath the table, firm but calm. It takes a moment, but I feel the shift—her shoulders drop slightly, her breath slows. She relaxes just a little. Our eyes meet, and I want this moment to last forever. But she blinks away before the eye contact can last too long. And maybe that’s for the best—because even looking at her right now feels like playing with fire.
Dinner begins. The first course is a wild mushroom bisque, garnished with crème fra?che and tiny curls of black truffle. Calista’s spoon moves gracefully—she eats slowly, the picture of practiced elegance. I taste mine—earthy, rich, smooth on the tongue. The kind of dish meant to impress, not comfort.
Next comes roasted duck breast, glazed with cherry and port wine, served over sweet potato puree and wilted kale. The meat is tender, the skin crisp. Calista cuts hers with precision, pausing between bites to nod at the appropriate comments, smile at the appropriate compliments.
"You’re playing the part well," I murmur without turning.
She smirks, her voice low. "So are you."
A toast is raised. One of the capos leans forward, a gleam in his eye. "When is the wedding, Don Lazaro? You’ve always been a man of swift decisions."
Another voice joins in. "What was the moment you knew she was yours?"
Calista’s hand slides beneath the table, fingers finding mine. They’re ice cold, but steady. She squeezes.
"Tell them,” she says sweetly, smiling wide.
"The moment I saw her. She tried to fight me. She actually managed to take a jab at Riven."
A few heads turn, surprised. Someone chuckles, disbelieving. "She did what? Riven?"
"Oh, yes," I say, leaning back with a slow smirk. "Caught him off guard."
The surprise grows. Riven’s reputation precedes him—ex-military, brutal in hand-to-hand combat, a fortress in human form. The idea of Calista landing a clean hit on him is almost absurd.
I glance at her. She’s looking right at me, lips curled into that same smug grin. And before I can stop myself, I return it.
Lucrezia watches us with that infuriatingly smug expression of hers. I know exactly what she’s thinking—this little performance is working too well.
More wine is poured. The third course is risotto—creamy, laced with saffron and parmesan, topped with charred scallops. The richness coats my tongue. Calista rarely speaks, but when she does, it’s with pointed sharpness that makes a few men shift in their seats.
One of the capos from the Eastern faction, Vincent, a man known for his collection of rare blades and sharper words—asks about her tattoos. Calista smiles, slow and thoughtful, then lifts her arm and taps the rose inked along her shoulder. "This one’s for my mother," she says, voice softer but no less steady. "She loved roses. Said they were proof that something beautiful could still carry thorns."
There’s a quiet stretch where everyone shifts uncomfortably, until the Greek syndicate leader raises her glass. “A strong woman, just like her daughter. A rare match for our Lazaro.”
Calista’s smile sharpens. "He didn’t tame me," she replies. "He just knows when to let fire burn."
The woman’s eyes drop to the half-finished tattoo along Calista’s forearm—the coiled blade, smudged and incomplete.
"And that one? What’s its story?"
Calista glares at me before answering, her voice clipped. "Don’t blame me. Blame him for this."
More laughter. More veiled praise. But behind the polished smiles, I see it—the way eyes flick toward her, toward me. This is more than a dinner. It’s a declaration.
She’s mine. And I want the world to know it.
But the illusion cracks slightly when one of the Capos—Don Sergio—leans back in his seat, eyes challenging. "Beautiful, yes. But a distraction. A pawn dressed in silk."
There’s a flash of confusion on Calista’s face, just for a second—brief, subtle—but I catch it. Then it’s gone, replaced by a much harder expression. She lifts her wine glass, smile like ice. "Careful, Don Sergio. Men who underestimate me tend to bleed out unexpectedly."
Fury brews inside me. How dare he say that? The urge to stand, to slam my fist into the table, to remind this room who exactly she is —it takes everything in me to keep my face calm. But inside, I'm seething.
A ripple of unease moves through the room. I stay silent. There’s no need to speak—her words are enough. More than enough. But I know Don Sergio needs to be taken care of. He needs to be reminded of who is in power here. I’ve saved his ass more times than I can count, and maybe he’s starting to forget his place.
Hours pass, and as they do, I drink more wine. I know it’s best for me to stop, but it feels good to just get a little drunk and forget about my responsibilities—even for a few moments. The burn of the alcohol is a welcome distraction.
Eventually, the guests begin to leave, one by one. I nod at them, exchange slurred goodbyes in a drunken blur. Their faces blur, their words a fog. By the end, it's just me and Calista left in the grand room. Both of us are still standing in the grand room after having said goodnight to Lucrezia, who was the last one to leave. As the doors close behind her, there’s a hush. I look at Calista. Her cheeks are pink, her lips rosy, and she’s clearly drunk. There’s a lazy softness in her posture, a slight sway to her stance. Her eyes meet mine as she sways slightly.
"Why didn’t you defend me in there?" she asks.
I blink, confused. "What? When?"
She arches a brow. "Don Sergio. You just sat there. Didn’t say a word."
The memory stirs sluggishly through the haze of wine. I vaguely recall the insult, the unease, her sharp retort.
"You handled it," I mutter.
"Yeah, I did," she snaps. "But that doesn’t mean you get to sit there and let them take shots."
I scowl. "You didn’t need defending. You made him bleed with words."
"That’s not the point," she says, voice low and sharp. "The point is, you were supposed to have my back. Even if I didn’t need it. Even if I didn’t ask."
Her words hit harder than I expect. And suddenly, I feel a sobering clarity wash over me.
I stop, turn to face her. "Because you didn’t need me to. You handled it better than I would’ve."
She laughs bitterly. "You’re not as unreadable as you think. I see the cracks. You’re not stone, Lazaro. You’re just scared."
I step forward, grab her wrist. "Say that again."
"You’re scared," she repeats, eyes locked on mine. "Of me. Of what I make you feel."
I scoff, trying to deny her, trying to hold onto the mask I’ve worn for years. But then I look at her, and hunger punches through my chest like a fist. She’s standing there, proud and fierce and infuriating, and I can’t resist her. Not now. Not with the fire she has started lighting in my blood.
Instinctively, I pull her toward me and press my lips to hers with a force I don’t bother to hold back. At first, she almost resists, caught off guard by the force of it, but then she melts against me, softening as her body yields. My fingers slide into her hair, tightening just enough to remind her that I’m no gentleman, and I will never pretend to be. Her scent is intoxicating—wine, roses, and a scent uniquely hers that makes my pulse quicken.
She moans into the kiss, her fingers twisting into my hair, clutching me with more force than I thought she’d have. Her nails scrape my scalp, and it only fuels the fire between us. I deepen the kiss, tilting her head with a rough grip on her jaw, sliding my tongue past her lips in a battle for dominance I already know I’m losing. She tastes sweet and addictively dangerous.
My hands roam, one gripping her waist, the other flattening against her lower back to keep her pressed tight to me. I can feel every curve of her, every trembling breath. Her dress does little to keep me from feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers. Her hips arch against me instinctively, her body betraying whatever protest might be forming in her mind.
I break away just long enough to kiss down her neck, teeth grazing her throat before I reclaim her mouth again, this time slower, deeper. Her body molds against mine with perfect friction. She kisses back with equal ferocity, lips bruising mine in a frenzy of fire and desperation. It's chaos. It’s war disguised as a kiss, and neither of us wants to surrender first.
Her hands roam too now—across my shoulders, down my chest—feeling, claiming, responding to every movement I make. I grip her hips tighter, pull her flush against me until there’s no space left between us. She gasps again, a soft sound that feels like a damn victory.
The longer we kiss, the more the world spins, not from the wine, but from her. It’s like every part of her is a challenge I’m desperate to conquer—and terrified I never will. Heat rolls through me, thick and relentless. My blood pounds, and I feel her heartbeat echo against my own.
And then—reality crashes back in. I pull away abruptly, breath ragged, heart thundering. I push her back gently, but firmly. She stumbles, eyes wide with shock and what I can only call regret. Her lips are swollen, glistening, her breath coming in soft pants. Her eyes search mine.
"Who’s scared now?" I whisper.
She says nothing, just stares back at me, chest rising and falling rapidly. It feels like something might shatter between us—or fuse completely.
But I turn and walk away without another word. Her taste lingers on my tongue, hauntingly sweet and maddening. I want to hate her. I want to erase every trace of this desire clawing its way through me.
But I want her too.
And I no longer know which feeling is stronger.