Chapter 11 #2
The way she leaves it there—all formal like I’m not someone who she’s kind of seeing—lands like a king hit.
I’m not some nameless nobody she picked up at a bar, nothing but the host for the evening.
I might be the devil in every cop’s bedtime story, but I built half the skyline these people are drinking under tonight.
I’ve clawed my way out of my father’s mess and bled for every inch of legitimacy we have.
I’m not hiding who the fuck I am.
I give her a small, cool smile, then turn to her parents. I extend my hand to the Chief. “It’s an honor to meet you, Chief Byrne. Thank you for coming tonight and for your service to our great city.”
His eyes narrow, a flicker of recognition sparking there. As the Chief of Police, of course he knows who my family is. Ordinarily, I doubt he’d care, so long as we kept ourselves clean, but my knowing his daughter, dating her possibly, that was something else altogether.
He doesn’t move to shake my hand, leaves me out there, hanging again. People nearby could be watching. I don’t look to check. I just keep my hand steady, my jaw relaxed, like I’m not timing each heartbeat he makes me wait, but I won’t wait forever.
Finally, he takes it.
His grip is firm. Not crushing, but deliberate. Testing. I meet his gaze and squeeze back just as hard, no more, no less. I’ve shaken hands with men who’ve ordered hits and priests who’ve given last rites. A handshake can tell you a lot about a man.
This one says: I know exactly what you are, and I’m not impressed.
“Mr. Moretti,” he says, voice flat. “I’ve heard your name.”
Not “nice to meet you.” Not even a fake thank-you for the charity donations we’ve made to his own department’s youth programs. Just that he’s heard of my name. “I get that a lot,” I reply lightly. “Hopefully for the right reasons these days.”
One of his brows lifts, the smallest twitch of disdain. “That depends on who you ask.”
I see Dallen tense, like a wire pulled too tight. Her hand hovers near her father’s arm, as if she’s not sure if she should touch him or me or neither. Her mother is watching me like I’m something she’s stepped in.
I turn to her because I was raised with manners, even if they were carved into me by a violent man. “Mrs. Byrne,” I say with a nod. “Good to see you again.”
“We’ve met?” Her tone is frosted glass.
“When I was out to dinner several days ago with Dallen,” I remind her. “You were dining with friends.” I let a hint of amusement curve my lips.
Recognition flickers in her eyes, followed immediately by annoyance that she’s spoken to me at all. “Ah. Yes.” She gives me her hand like it’s costing her something, fingers limp, as if actual contact might infect her.
I take it briefly and let go. If she wants distance, I can give her miles.
The awkwardness stretches like gum between us, sticky and unbreakable.
“How do you know our daughter?” the Chief asks then, cutting straight through the bullshit. He looks at Dallen when he speaks, but the question is aimed at me. A cross-examination.
My heart gives one hard thud. That’s the thing about men like him, they don’t waste time.
Dallen beats me to it. “We…met on a night out,” she says quickly, that bright fake smile plastered on again.
She doesn’t look at me, and that hurts more than I want to admit.
“Remember when I told you I got a ride home. It is Mr. Moretti who was kind enough to give me one. Our meeting is totally by chance.”
It is by chance, but I saw her in the club and moved to the bar to be near her, to see if she was there with anyone.
But the benign, cold way in which she terms our first meeting, well, that won’t do at all.
I’ll be reminding her later that I did a lot more than just give her a ride home. She rode me, if memory serves me right.
The Chief turns his full attention on me, weighing every inch, every line of my expensive suit. “Moretti Global,” he repeats slowly. “Quite the operation.”
“We try,” I say. “Shipping, construction, and real estate. A few other ventures. You’ve got a couple of our developments on your beat, I imagine. The community center on Forty-Second, the youth complex in Queens—”
“Funded by blood money,” Mrs. Byrne murmurs under her breath. It’s barely audible, but I catch it. Of course I do.
Heat flashes under my skin, hot and savage.
I keep my smile, but it tightens at the edges.
A part of me wants to lean in and ask her if she prefers her daughter fucking a broke accountant instead.
Another part wants to walk away before I say something that will have Lucien dragging me off the front page of tomorrow’s papers.
Instead, I let the anger settle, cold and heavy. I’m used to this. To be the villain in every room I walk into.
But this is different. Because they don’t just hate a name. They hate me. And she’s standing there, my girl who kissed me like I am the only man she’s ever wanted, letting them.
Fine.
If they want a villain, I can oblige.
“You’re welcome to come see the books anytime, Mrs. Byrne,” I say, voice silky. “We’ve been audited more than most Fortune 500 companies. Everything above board. That’s the beauty of going legitimate. People can dig all they like and find nothing but tax returns and building permits.”
The Chief studies me with that cop stare that feels like an internal examination. “Some stains don’t wash off, Mr. Moretti. No matter how many buildings you put your name on.”
My jaw ticks. “Some stains built this city,” I shoot back softly. “At least we’re using ours to give something back, not merely pretending to help at yearly held charities.”
There’s a tiny, almost invisible wince from Dallen. She finally looks at me, properly, and the sheen of confusion and hurt in her eyes slices straight through my armor.
You could have told me, I want to say. About your father. About who you are. You could have given me a chance to tell you who I am, too.
Instead, I tip my head slightly, eyes never leaving the Chief’s. “We’re glad you’re here tonight,” I say. “Your presence means something to the donors, to the press, and to the kids these programs help. Optics matter, don’t they?”
He knows what I’m doing. We both do. If he walks out now, he looks petty. Political. Like a man with a personal vendetta instead of a public servant. And he can’t afford that.
So he gives me a smile with no warmth. “I’m here for the cause,” he says. “Not the company.”
“Of course.” I let the lie sit there. “I hope you enjoy the evening.”
The mother gives a brittle laugh. “We’ll do our best.”
Lucien’s voice booms from across the room as he calls everyone to take their seats, the lights dimming a fraction. The usual shuffle and murmur follow as people start drifting toward their tables.
“You’re at my table,” I tell them, because if I’m going to be judged, I want front-row seats.
“What a jolly night this will be.” Sarcasm laces my words.
I hold Dallen’s gaze for one last heartbeat.
There’s so much I want to say in that look.
Don’t let them decide who I am for you. Don’t run.
Don’t you dare pretend what happened between us was nothing.
She looks away first.
The cold, hard thing inside me snaps into place. All right, sweetheart. If this is how your family wants to play it, I can play.
They think I’m not good enough? They think a Moretti is something you scrape off your shoe? Fine. I’ll show them exactly what happens when you look down on a man who’s spent his whole life crawling out of the gutter they shoved him in.
I turn away, walking back toward our table, my stride easy, unhurried. People nod, smile, call my name, and I let the charm slide back into place like a well-tailored coat.
But under it, something sharp and possessive has lodged deep.
They don’t know it yet, but the more they push her away from me, the more they make it impossible for me to let her go. I don’t lose. Not business deals. Not real estate. And definitely not the woman who finally makes me want more than the next deal, the next night, the next anonymous fuck.
If the Chief of Police and his ice-queen wife want to keep their perfect daughter away from the big, bad Moretti? I’m going to enjoy proving them wrong.