Chapter 1 #2
We sit. Mick signals the waiter like he owns the place.
"I can order my own drink," I say.
His brows lift. "Of course."
Sylvie orders something fruity and lethal. Mia gets champagne. Janie picks something pink and sparkly. I go for white wine because it sounds basic and hard to mess up.
The drinks arrive. The wine tastes fine. Unremarkable. I take one sip and set it down.
Sylvie leans in.
"I'm glad you came," she says.
"Me too."
"You disappeared. I missed you."
It lands right behind my ribs.
I want to say I missed her too.
Instead I say, "You could've visited my glamorous apartment."
"The one with the screaming radiator?"
"She's passionate."
Sylvie laughs. The tight knot in my chest loosens a little.
Then the air shifts.
Nothing obvious. The music keeps playing. Glasses still clink.
But conversations drop, just a notch. Shoulders straighten. The two men by the hallway to the private suites touch their earpieces at the same time.
My spine goes stiff.
"Don't stare," Sylvie whispers.
"At what?" I ask.
Then I see him.
The man who just stepped into the bar does not look like he belongs in the Belvedere.
He looks like the Belvedere belongs to him.
Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black suit tailored with surgical precision.
Dark hair threaded with silver at the temples.
Salt-and-pepper stubble on a hard-cut jaw.
Dark eyes that scan the room like he's cataloging exits and weaknesses.
Older. Mid-forties, maybe.
Too old.
Too powerful.
Too calm.
Every instinct I have should scream run.
Instead, my body leans forward like it's bored of survival instincts.
"Who is that?" I whisper.
Sylvie follows my gaze and goes very still. "Gabriel Moretti."
The name settles over the table like a bad forecast.
"What does he do?" I ask.
Mia lets out a tiny, nervous laugh. "Whatever he wants."
Not an answer. Somehow, completely an answer.
Gabriel Moretti says something low to one of the men by the hall. The man nods like his life depends on it.
Then Gabriel's gaze lifts.
And finds me.
Not Sylvie in her perfect little dress.
Me.
His eyes lock on mine and stay there.
Heat skates down my spine, sharp and unwelcome. My brain raises a red flag. My body uses it as confetti.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass.
Hotel guests usually look through me, around me. Past me.
He looks at me like he recognizes something. Like I'm a file he's been waiting to pull.
My pulse stutters.
"Thea," Sylvie murmurs. "Breathe."
"I am breathing."
"Like you're about to pass out or propose."
"Relax," I say. "If I pass out, at least I'll finally get some horizontal time."
“With him?” she whispers.
“With a mattress, Sylvie. I still have standards.”
My eyes betray me by flicking back to Gabriel Moretti.
“Questionable standards,” she amends.
Mick slides back to our table like he heard his cue.
"Ladies," he says. "Enjoying yourselves?"
"Depends," I say. "Is mop water an accepted chaser in this crowd?"
Sylvie elbows me, laughing. "Yeah, we're good. Thanks for the drinks."
His gaze drops to my half-finished wine. "You don't like it?"
"I'm pacing myself."
"Smart girl."
I hate the way he says it.
Like he knows exactly how far behind I am in this game.
Across the room, Gabriel Moretti is still watching.
Mick shifts just enough to block my view.
"To old friends," Sylvie says, clinking her glass against mine.
I take a small sip and set the glass back down, reaching for the water instead. Something about tonight feels off. Not the wine, not the bar.
Mick.
The way his eyes keep drifting to me and then away, too quickly, like he's counting something.
I know that look. Rich men use it before they ask housekeeping to ignore a broken lamp, a bloody towel, a woman crying in the bathroom.
"Bathroom," I say, pushing back my chair before anyone can protest. "Try not to sell my organs while I'm gone."
Sylvie laughs, bright and easy, the way Sylvie always laughs. "If they offer enough, I'm taking a cut."
"Rude."
Mick smiles like he thinks we're both adorable. Or stupid. Hard to tell which.
I weave through the crowd, heart still thudding from that stare across the room.
The hallway to the restrooms is dimmer, quieter.
The music fades to a muffled thump behind me.
I reach the sign for the bathrooms and turn toward the familiar door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
A hand closes around my elbow.
Not rough. Not gentle.
Possessive enough to make my skin crawl.
I turn and find Mick at my shoulder, that easy smile still pasted on his face.
"Wrong way," he says. "They've closed those tonight for a VIP event. Use the ones in back."
I narrow my eyes. "I work here. I just cleaned those two hours ago."
"Management changed the policy," he says smoothly. "High-profile guests mean high-strung security. They don't want staff and guests mixing in the back corridors right now."
He tilts his head toward the bar, where men in suits and heavy watches still sit like the world belongs to them.
"You don't want to cause trouble for your boss, do you?"
My jaw tightens.
Something prickles at the back of my neck. He's not wrong about the rules. The Belvedere has a hundred of them. But something about the way he's standing, angled just enough to block my retreat, makes every quiet alarm I own start to hum.
"I can find my own way," I start.
"Come on. It's just through here. I'll show you. You'll be back before your friend finishes that drink."
His hand stays on my elbow.
I look down at it.
Then back up at him.
"That hand important to you?"
His brows twitch. "Excuse me?"
"Because if it is, I’d move it."
For a second, I think he might laugh.
He does not.
His fingers loosen, but only a little.
My heart hammers. My mouth is dry. My legs want to do something dramatic, like shake or sprint or resign from my body entirely.
I take one step back.
Mick’s eyes go flat.
Then I hear Sylvie behind me.
"Thea?"
I turn just as two men step out of the private hallway. One catches Sylvie around the waist. The other grabs me before I can kick him in the balls.
Mick releases my elbow. "Thirty seconds," he tells them. "Then bring them out."
"Where are you going?" I snap.
His smile comes back, slick and satisfied.
"To introduce you."