Chapter 11
ELEVEN
STEPHEN
The charity event comes around quicker than I think. I haven’t seen Dallen for several days. In fact, a few of my messages have been ignored, left unread, or replied to with one-word answers.
What the fuck is going on?
I plan to ask her to come with me. I don't know if she'll care about who I am or my family name when she Googles me.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking she knows who I am and the family I hail from, and she’s too polite to dump my ass the old-fashioned way…in person.
I pull on my evening jacket and roll my shoulders, adjusting the fit to be more comfortable.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my suit barely concealing the tatts that are over my hands that go all the way up my arms. A few are visible where my tie sits.
I look good enough for a charity event, one my family is hosting and donating to along with everyone else in this city who has money.
A knock sounds on my door, and I turn to find my housekeeper, an older woman, standing on the threshold of the room. “Your car is here, Mr. Moretti.”
“Thank you, May, and remember what I said. No more Mr. Moretti, you can call me Stephen.”
She smiles and doesn’t respond, merely walks back to where she rules this house, the kitchen, where she cooks some of the best meals I’ve ever had in my life.
She’s the best investment I’ve ever made, and although I bring in millions of dollars to the family business through real estate, having someone cook delicious, wholesome, healthy meals is one of life’s blessings.
A blessing that was denied to my brothers and me as kids. Our father couldn’t have given a shit if we ate or died.
I push the memory down and start for the elevator. “Thanks again, May. I’ll see you tomorrow after lunch.”
“Have a good evening, Mr. Moretti.”
I sigh, laughing to myself that no matter how much I try, I can’t break her into calling me by my given name.
I ride the elevator down to the foyer and start for the car where my driver waits.
The distance to the Met is short from where I live, and skipping the red carpet, I enter the gala and start to interact with the invited guests.
I play the part my brother Lucien has taught us all, complimenting, teasing, and boasting as good as anyone else who is present, all in the hopes that those here tonight will open their check books and be generous.
Most are generous; some are harder to convince.
I enter the dining room, where the night’s auction will take place, and look for where I’ll be seated. I read the place setting board and narrow my eyes. The Chief of Police. I purse my lips and turn to take in the room. At least sitting next to law and order should make the night interesting.
I spy Elio and Alex Romero, and any enjoyment I was pretending to have regarding the night vanishes. What the hell are they doing here?
I turn and look for Lucien, spying him near the bar and thankfully alone. Briar doesn’t need to know the relatives of her slain ex-husband are here, not before she sees them for herself.
“Lucien, did you invite the Romeros?” The question is out before I’m three feet from him.
Lucien hands me a glass of bourbon and takes a sip of his drink.
“Yes, I thought it would look less obvious I offed their cousin if they were invited. Not to mention they do have money, maybe not as much as they used to, but it would have looked strange, I thought, if I hadn’t extended the invitation. ”
“It would have looked perfectly fine. There isn’t any love lost between our families, hasn’t been for many years, even before Briar.”
“She knows they’re here and is well guarded and will stay clear of them, but she knows what she has to do to keep what we have safe. So if she can play that role this evening, so can you.” My brother pats my chest before giving my face a light slap. “Okay, brother?”
“I’d prefer to off them myself than have to see them here.”
“We’ll try not to, but I hear they’ve hired a new law firm.
Redwood they don’t appear as bright as Matteo, not that he was ever overly intelligent either. ”
I scoff and see our head of security and cousin Anthony walking around the room with Briar as she speaks to guests.
My attention moves over those who are already in the dining room.
My heart slams into my chest at the sight of Dallen, with her delightful mother at her side, and I’m assuming the tall, middle-aged gentleman behind them to be her father.
“Ah, yes, the Chief of Police is here. I put him at your table. I thought you’d find the night more interesting with him as a table guest.”
Lucien’s laugh grates on my nerves, and I seriously consider for a moment popping him one on the jaw. “Yeah, sure.” I narrow my eyes on the three of them. “Is that their daughter?” Dallen can’t be the Chief of Police’s daughter.
“Yes, Dallen Byrne…” Lucien claps me on the shoulder, and I still. “Hey, isn’t that the redhead from the club the other night? The one you left with?”
I nod, downing the last of my bourbon. “Yeah. Same one.” Shit.
“Well, your night just got even more enjoyable. Behave yourself,” Lucien says, before sauntering off.
I don’t move, unable to shift my weight forward.
The room's noise dulls to a distant hum.
It is like I've been pushed underwater. All I can see is her.
Dallen. Silver dress skimming her curves.
Red, luscious hair twisted up to show off that soft throat I've kissed.
Her hand looped through her mother's arm.
Her smile tight, brittle. The man behind them—tall, graying, built like he used to be a linebacker—watches the room with a cop's discernment.
Chief of fucking Police.
Of course he is. She’s a damn lawyer; why wouldn’t he also be in law enforcement?
Heat creeps up the back of my neck, a charred flavor settles on my tongue that tastes a hell of a lot like insult. I drag in a breath, rolling my shoulders back, setting my face into that calm, bored expression that gets me through board meetings and murder cleanups alike.
She didn’t tell me he’s the Chief of Police.
I’m a Moretti.
That won’t suit, no matter how you try to force them to. It would be like two magnets flipped over, forever moving around each other but never coming together.
I let the thoughts settle, line themselves up.
It doesn’t change what happened in the car.
It doesn’t change how her nails dug into my shoulders, or the way she whispered my name like a prayer and a curse combined when she climaxed on my cock.
It doesn’t change that, when I wake up, she’s the first thing I think of.
I take one step, then another, crossing the room.
A few heads turn. They always do. People see my face, they see the tux, the watch that costs more than most cars, and they decide I’m important or dangerous or both. And they’re right.
Dallen looks up at that moment, like she can feel me coming. Her eyes go wide. The color drains from her cheeks so fast I almost think she’s going to faint. Her gaze flicks from me to Lucien across the room, to the huge Moretti crest on the sponsor backdrop near the stage, and back to me.
There it is. Recognition. Not Stephen-who-made-her-come-in-the-backseat-of-his-car. Stephen Moretti. At least I know she’s now Googled me. Maybe I won’t have to explain myself or my family’s past after all. As a lawyer, I think she knows more about me than I do.
My stomach knots as her features harden the closer I move toward her. Dallen’s fingers tighten on her mother’s arm before she, too, follows her daughter’s line of sight, and her lips thin when she sees me. She’s already met me once, with a less-than-favorable response, like I smell wrong.
Rotten maybe.
Now her eyes are ice.
Obviously, I won’t be winning Dallen’s mother over.
I don’t slow down because I need to face this directly. I’m not the one who hides; if there’s fallout, I want to deal with it head-on. They came into my world, not the other way around. “Dallen,” I say when I’m close enough. Her name fits in my mouth too easily. It shouldn’t.
She startles like I’ve touched her, even though I’m still a step away. “Mr. Moretti.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Good evening.”
I reach for her hand automatically, fingers lifting toward her elbow, wanting to feel her, to anchor this mess with something real. I want that little spark I always get when my skin brushes hers, the one I’ve been thinking about for days.
She flinches.
Actually flinches.
Her hand jerks out of my reach so fast she might as well have slapped me. My hand hangs there—suspended between us. Empty, stupid, exposed.
For a second, everything inside me goes still.
Right. Message received.
I let my hand fall back to my side, slow, controlled, like I meant to do it that way. I force myself to mask the humiliation—this isn’t unfamiliar. I remind myself it’s survival, not pride, that keeps me composed.
Her mother steps half a pace closer to Dallen, like she’s shielding her from me. Like I’m the threat here. Perhaps she’s more clever than I gave her credit for.
“Darling,” the Chief says, his voice carrying that measured authority you hear on press conferences and crime documentaries. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”
Friend?
If I weren’t the one bleeding internally, I’d laugh.
Dallen swallows, straightens, and forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Yes. Of course.” Her fingers twist in the fabric of her clutch so hard her knuckles turn white.
“Mother, Dad…this is Stephen Moretti, one of our hosts this evening.” She pauses.
“Mr. Moretti, these are my parents, Susan and Thomas Byrne.”