Chapter 1 #2
"Besides," Sophie continued, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "You're grieving. You're dealing with loss. Surely everyone will understand if you need one night to let loose and process your feelings with, oh, I don't know, several drinks and maybe some questionable decisions?"
I laughed despite my nerves. "That's a terrible justification."
"But accurate." She started the car. "Your mom just died, Aria. You're allowed to not be perfect for one night."
She was right. About all of it. I'd been so focused on being strong, on holding it together, on being the perfect daughter even in grief that I'd barely let myself feel anything.
Maybe tonight I could just... feel. Everything. The grief, the anger, the desperate need to prove I was alive.
The club was in a part of downtown I'd never been to. Neon lights, bass so loud I could feel it in my chest from the parking lot, a line of people wrapped around the building.
Sophie bypassed all of it, walking straight to the bouncer like she owned the place.
"Hey, Marcus."
The massive man looked down at her and actually smiled. "Sophie. Been a while."
"I've been busy. This is my friend Aria. It's her birthday."
Marcus's eyes swept over me, and I fought the urge to squirm under his assessment. After a moment, he nodded and unclipped the rope. "Happy birthday. Try not to get into too much trouble."
Inside was sensory overload. Bodies packed together on the dance floor, lights strobing in rhythm with music that was more feeling than sound, the smell of sweat and expensive perfume and alcohol all mixing together.
I'd never experienced anything like it. And I loved it immediately.
Sophie pulled me through the crowd to the bar. "Two shots of tequila!"
"I don't drink!"
"You do tonight!" She pressed a shot glass into my hand. "To living!"
The tequila burned going down, and I coughed while Sophie laughed. But she wasn't wrong—the warmth spreading through my chest felt like courage taking root.
"Okay." Sophie was already scanning the crowd with predatory interest. "What's the plan?"
"Plan?"
"Birthday girl's choice. Dancing? Flirting? Making out with a random hot guy?" She waggled her eyebrows. "Finally getting that first kiss you've been hoarding?"
My face went hot. "Sophie!"
"What? You're eighteen and you've never been kissed. That's practically a crime. When's the last time you even came close?"
"There was that thing with Marco at the summer party—"
"Oh my god." Sophie was dying. "The sneeze incident. I forgot about that. His face when you—" She doubled over laughing.
"I had allergies!" I covered my burning face. "Can we please never speak of that again?"
"Never. That's going in my wedding toast to you someday." She grinned, then her expression softened. "But seriously, what do you want tonight?"
I thought about it. About the white dress probably being fitted right now for my wedding to Salvatore.
About Papa's promise to find another way that might not work.
About the fact that if I did end up married to that man, my first kiss—my first everything—would be with someone who made my skin crawl.
"I want to feel normal," I said finally. "Like I'm just Aria. Not the Romano daughter, not some grieving girl, not a future mob wife. Just... me."
"Then that's exactly who you're going to be tonight." Sophie squeezed my shoulder. "Now I need to go find Derek—he's the guy with the motorcycle I told you about. You should mingle."
"Mingle? Sophie, I don't know how to mingle!"
"Talk to people! Flirt! Have fun!" She was already backing into the crowd. "Text me if you need me!"
And then she was gone, swallowed by the press of bodies, leaving me alone with my shot glass and rising panic.
I could do this. I was Aria Romano. I'd survived years of etiquette training, family dinners with murderers, and watching my mother die. I could handle one night at a club.
I started moving through the crowd, trying to look like I belonged. People-watching had always been my thing. Growing up in the mafia meant learning to read people fast—who was dangerous, who was weak, who could be manipulated.
Couple in the corner—together at least six months based on how comfortable they were practically having sex against the wall. No first date awkwardness there.
Group of girls doing shots—celebrating something. Promotion, maybe? The blonde kept showing her phone to the others.
Guy in the expensive suit—waiting for someone. Kept checking his watch, getting more annoyed by the minute. Definitely been stood up.
Three guys playing pool—
Someone was watching me.
I felt it before I saw him. The weight of a stare so intense it was like a physical touch dragging across my skin. Every instinct Papa had drilled into me about awareness and threat assessment screamed to attention.
I turned slowly, scanning the crowd.
And found him.
He was leaning against the far wall, drink in hand, eyes locked directly on me with an intensity that stole my breath. Even in the strobing lights and press of bodies, I could make out enough to know I was in serious trouble.
Mid-twenties. Tall—really tall. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it too many times. Sharp features that could have been carved from stone. And eyes so dark they looked black even from across the room.
He didn't look away when I caught him staring. Didn't even pretend to be embarrassed. Just took a slow sip of his drink, and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile but made my stomach flip anyway.
I looked away first, heat flooding my face.
Danger. Every cell in my body recognized it. This man was dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with guns or family names or the violence I'd grown up around. This was something more primal. More inevitable.
I needed to stay far, far away from him.
I pushed deeper into the crowd, trying to focus on anything else. The music, the lights, the couple now making out near the DJ booth. But I could still feel it—that weight. That stare tracking my every movement like he could see through the press of bodies.
My skin felt too tight. My heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the tequila. This was insane. He was just some guy at a club, and plenty of guys had stared at me before.
Except no one had ever looked at me like that. Like I was already his and he was just waiting for me to figure it out.
I found a quieter corner near the back hallway, away from the main dance floor, and tried to catch my breath. This was supposed to be fun. Liberating. Instead I felt like prey being circled by a wolf.
"You look lost."
The voice came from right behind me and I spun so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet.
He'd materialized out of nowhere. Up close, he was even more devastating. Those eyes weren't brown—they were so dark they were almost black, and the way he looked at me made every rational thought evacuate my brain.
"I'm not lost." My voice came out steadier than I felt. Small victories.
"No?" He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he was solving. "You've been wandering around for the past fifteen minutes like you're trying to find something."
"Maybe I'm trying to avoid something."
His smile widened, sharp and knowing. "Smart girl."
The way he said it made my stomach flip. Not condescending. Almost... approving.
"You don't belong here," he continued, moving slightly closer. Not crowding me, but deliberate. Intentional. "This place. These people."
Indignation flared. "And you're basing that on what? My face?"
"Everything." His eyes traveled over me slowly. "The way you've been analyzing everyone in this room like you're cataloging threats. The way you flinched when that couple started arguing. The way you're still holding that empty shot glass like it's a shield."
I looked down. I was still clutching the stupid glass. I set it on a nearby table, annoyed that he was right.
"Have you been stalking me?"
"Watching you. There's a difference."
"That's not better!"
"I know." He didn't sound remotely sorry. "But I stopped pretending to be better than I am a long time ago."
Something about the way he said it—casual, honest, unapologetic—made my pulse jump.
"So you just... watch women without their permission?"
"Just you." His gaze locked onto mine. "And you noticed. Which means you've been watching me too."
I had. God, I'd been hyperaware of exactly where he was since the second I felt his stare.
"That doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't it?" He took another step closer. I should have moved back. Should have put distance between us. But my feet wouldn't cooperate. "You look too innocent to be in a club like this."
I bristled. "That's incredibly presumptuous."
"It's a compliment."
"So you're not innocent? That's why you're here?"
His laugh was low and dangerous. "Not by a long shot. But for you, I could pretend to be."
Heat crawled up my neck. "Does that line usually work for you?"
"I don't use lines."
"Really? Because that sounded like a line."
"Lines are for men who need help." He said it matter-of-factly, no arrogance in his tone. Just certainty. "I don't."
"Because women just... what? Line up at your feet?"
"Yes."
The single word should have sounded cocky. Instead it came out like a simple statement of fact, and that made it so much worse.
"You're very confident."
"I'm honest." His hand came up, not quite touching my face but close enough that I could feel the heat. "Women don't interest me usually. Too much effort, too many games. But you—" His eyes traveled over my face slowly. "You interest me."
"You don't even know me."
"Then tell me about yourself." He leaned against the wall beside me, all casual confidence. "Level the playing field."
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything." His mouth curved. "Start with what brings an innocent girl to a place like this."
"I'm not innocent."