1. Clara
Chapter 1
Clara
I take another sip of my Manhattan, the narrow edge of the glass pressing into my lip. I force myself not to check the clock, feeling the phantom sensation of my phone buzzing in my pocket. It’s becoming exhausting, feigning interest in Delilah’s story while I’m waiting for an update from Charlie, but I infuse my expression with as much enthusiasm as I can muster for a first date. She’s smart. Pretty. A little talkative, which isn’t the most desirable quality in the spouse of a crime syndicate matriarch, but I’m sure it can be curbed. My annoyance is placated by the fact that she already knows who I am. Her older brother does communications for Aunt Alessia’s team, so she’s been at least tangentially aware of what The Syndicate does for years. She understands my predicament and is empathetic to the fact that I’m not looking for love.
Well, maybe empathetic is too sincere of a word. But Delilah wants comfort and security, and I can provide that. I don’t blame her—the world is hard and cruel, and if she can use her beauty and charm to secure a place far away from its rougher edges, more power to her.
It’s not like I have a ton of options. Six months ago, my besotted and idiotic twin brother fucked over my meticulously laid plan to never get married or have children by falling in love. Who are we to ignore fate? That’s what he’d said when I demanded to know what kind of fool would spit in the face of The Syndicate’s traditions. He uprooted a very thorough strategy in a single afternoon at a dingy Maryland courthouse, without the blessing of his family.
It doesn’t matter that I actually like Gwen, as much as I’m loath to admit it. Because now, to keep my promised place as the next matriarch of this family, I have to marry. Soon.
Which is why I’m sitting at Skyline, a rooftop bar in a part of Hollywood I’m not particularly fond of, listening to Delilah tell me about her time on her college’s rowing team. I haven’t actually been listening for a minute, instead stewing in my own annoyance and counting down the minutes until ten thirty-seven, but I nod all the same, letting the corners of my mouth tick up when she laughs.
I could make this work. I can already tell she wouldn’t want a voting role on the council, which is all the better for me. She’d slip her arm through mine and laugh with friends and foes at events. She’s entertaining enough to smooth over my sharpness with wit and charm. I can do this.
“I imagine your college experience was a little different, though. No sports teams, right?” Delilah asks, shifting her pin-straight black hair over her shoulder. There’s a flush to her pale cheeks, like she’s exerted herself by talking so much. Or maybe she’s flirting. Who knows? I’d have to be paying fucking attention to tell.
“I was more concerned with getting through it as quickly as possible,” I reply, shrugging as I polish off my drink. I know my tone is curt—it always is—but she doesn’t seem to mind, smiling with an understanding look in her eyes that grates on my nerves. My natural reaction to empathy isn’t fair to her, but I can’t help bristling. “Why don’t I get you another drink and you can tell me what I missed out on.”
“I need to run to the restroom, and then yes, another drink would be great,” she replies, shimmying off the barstool and throwing me a wink over her shoulder before heading to the other end of the room. Despite the fact that she’s a few inches shorter than me, the mid-thigh skirt and platform heels make her legs look a mile long. I could get used to that view.
I flag down the bartender and order another round, pulling my phone from my pocket to check on tonight’s operation. I usually wouldn’t worry—Charlie is incredibly good at his job—but this is the first field assignment he’s brought Gwen on. I’m understandably concerned that his focus is on her instead of our target.
When there’s no encrypted message waiting, I turn back to the bar and watch the world move around me. Skyline’s rooftop bar is objectively gorgeous, the actual downtown Los Angeles skyline visible to the east, the blinking lights of the Sunset Strip below. String lights and hanging plants dangle from the glass ceiling, filling the space with a warm glow that’s complemented by the holiday decor. It’s slow, even for a weeknight, but a dozen or so people sit on low couches and at high top tables, sipping drinks and laughing loudly.
I thought I would hate LA when I first arrived. I’m admittedly reluctant to love any place other than the city I grew up in. But there’s something about the way this place moves fast and slow at the same time, and how the people walk along the beaches with their faces tilted toward the sun, that reminds me of Bari. I don’t know how Charlie stands DC, nor Emily New York. I need the warmth and the sand, and the way the clock ticks slightly slower in some parts of the world.
I’m halfway through my drink when it strikes me that Delilah should be back by now. She could be sick, or taking a phone call, and I shouldn’t care. But I do, because I’m desperate, and I can’t let this opportunity pass by. Not again.
I drop coasters over our drinks, knowing I’ll probably toss them and order new ones anyway, and search out the bathroom. When I step inside, harsh fluorescence illuminates a small room with two very empty stalls. No one at the sink, or hiding behind the door. Familiar feelings of dread and embarrassment trickle down my spine as I close my eyes and crack my neck. Maybe she forgot where we were sitting. Or bumped into a friend and started chatting. Maybe this is different from the last three dates.
My blood simmers with rage at how fucking ludicrous I feel as I circle the bar, eyes moving from face to face, looking for my date. But I knew it as soon as I realized she’d been gone from the bar too long—she’s not here.
I swallow thickly, the knot in my stomach tying itself over and over until I can taste the sweetness of the vermouth, like rotting fruit in the back of my mouth. I find my place at the bar and push both drinks back to the bartender, ordering a whiskey on the rocks.
My pulse pounds in my fingertips, and I have the unreasonable urge to cry. I’m running out of time, and panic is starting to set in.
Since the dinner where Charlie introduced Gwen to the family, I’ve been diligent in my search. I thought my biggest obstacle would be my own reluctance to get married, but that was shockingly easy to come to terms with. Finding someone who wanted to align themselves politically with The Syndicate couldn’t be that hard. I only needed to sort through that pool of prospects to find the few who would be willing to live separate lives. A marriage on paper, where I provided my spouse and their family a life of luxury and safety in exchange for a certificate and an heir.
Charlie had the same thought process, but rather ineptly derailed his very reasonable plan by falling in love. But I am far more meticulous than my brother. I won’t make the same mistake.
However, it seems I miscalculated. Because despite careful planning and painstaking selections, I haven’t gotten past the first date with a potential spouse. No matter how good the lunch, drinks, dinner, show, whatever seems to be going, there’s never a second date. The first few times I was ghosted the next morning, I chalked it up to bad luck, or my bitter attitude. But this is the third time someone has disappeared in the middle of a date. I’m starting to think I’m radioactive.
More than a major blow to my ego, it’s a logistical nightmare. My mother may trust me to take her place as the leader of The Syndicate, but she won’t break tradition completely and let me assume my role without a spouse. Charlie and Gwen’s wedding date draws closer and closer, tightening the leash I’m tied to, strangling me. I have to cut it loose. I have to find someone.
Charlie made it look so easy. Just witness a murder, blindly hope the universe ensures you meet that murderer again, strike up a deal to save her sister’s life, and fall madly in love. How complicated could it be?
I sip on my whiskey, hating the taste without the sweet vermouth and cherry, but needing the smooth burn to soothe my ego and calm my nerves. There are not many things I fail at. I’m capable and brilliant, beautiful and ruthless. Not to mention, wealthy beyond most people’s comprehension. I’m a fucking catch. So why is it so goddamn hard to find someone to sit through an entire meal with me? Embarrassment, as foreign as it feels, makes my skin flash with heat.
Emily says this is normal. That dating in the twenty-first century is a minefield of assholes, a sea of fish who, despite being in their thirties and forties, still don’t know what they’re looking for. One would think that something more businesslike would be easier to find, but apparently not. After about three months of terrible dates, I thought there might be something nefarious going on, but then Emily took a photo of me talking to a potential partner at a Costa Family Foundation event. I looked like I was about to kill the poor guy, and I don’t even remember the conversation.
I should go home and bury myself in work. Stare at my phone and wait for Charlie’s confirmation message. Chase down leads on Konstantin, the man who orchestrated the near-fatal attack on my mother. Pick through the hundreds of flight logs, security tapes, paystubs, and other little scraps of evidence to find the mole within The Syndicate. I picture the web of connections, little strings tying person to place, secret to whisper, and the blank spaces that still remain a mystery. I have dedicated dozens of sleepless nights over the past year and a half to digging into that darkness. It would be reasonable, rational even, to spend tonight doing the same. Except…
I feel eyes on me. It’s instinctual, the same way anyone would notice water on their skin. When we were children, Emily called it the Costa Sixth Sense. I shift, keeping my expression neutral as the feeling lingers too long to be a passing glance. When the sensation finally dissipates, I glance up from beneath my lashes.
Even if this place wasn’t completely empty, I would have known it was him. He’s directly across from me, half hidden by the bottles and glasses of the U-shaped bar between us. He’s staring at the cocktail menu a little too diligently, honeyed brown hair falling over his eyes, but I can still feel the path his gaze traveled over my skin. He’s handsome, striking in the same violent way lightning is. My ego, admittedly damaged by Delilah’s escape act, is slightly healed by his perusal .
Maybe I need to blow off some steam. Reset my energy, or whatever Bea likes to say. Forget the endless evidence for one night and crawl into bed with someone hot enough to get me out of my own head.
Honestly, I need a win. Proof that I’m not broken, that my lack of success in finding a spouse isn’t because I’m undesirable. It’s patriarchal and immature, but getting a painfully attractive person to take me home might fix something in me.
Pick me, choose me, love me, right? Pathetic.
Despite knowing how ridiculous I look, I let my gaze wander over him, appreciating what I can see. He’s tall, his frame lean and barely hiding packed-in muscle. His button-down shirt clings to the dips and lines of his biceps, and his rolled cuffs reveal suspiciously sculpted, golden-brown forearms. I’d pin him to be some sort of gym-rat tech bro, except for the way he holds himself. His energy is menacing in a way that feels like a dare. The line of his jaw is sharp and cutting, but not nearly as intense as his eyes.
I let my gaze linger a bit, like I know he did, flushing like I’m embarrassed he caught me looking. Men love that. They love thinking you don’t want them to know you’re interested. It’s a truth I’ve used a thousand times to slither into somebody’s good graces. Charlie may be better at forcing information, but I’ve always been skilled at tempting it out of someone.
When I don’t hear the scrape of a barstool or quiet footsteps headed my way, I allow myself another glance, keeping that demure look on my face. This time, he doesn’t look away. In fact, it seems like he’s suppressing a laugh, an eyebrow quirked like he’s calling my bluff. It takes me a beat to reset, but once my brain catches up, I can’t help but return the laugh. Maybe this will be even more fun. A little challenge to get me re-centered.
He tips his drink toward me—clear, maybe vodka, with a slight pink tint—and calls the bartender over. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“The gentleman would like to buy you another round,” the older man says, his tone slightly amused. “Another whiskey neat?”
“A Manhattan again, please,” I reply without breaking his gaze. He’s waiting for me to make a move, return the chess play. Not in the I’m so hot that women will throw themselves at me way, but in the way that makes me think he sees through my ruse.
Drink in hand, I slip my bag onto my shoulder as I make my way around the bar and slide into the seat right next to his. His eyes, green with a ring of brown that makes them look like the earth from above, slide over my exposed shoulders, the winter chill no match for the blazing trail they leave across my skin.
Oh yeah, this is going to be fun.