24. Sara
Sara
The Cosmopolitan’s main gallery features a cavernous hall, marble floors, and massive columns stationed every dozen feet or so.
Recessed spotlights showcase the priceless works of art tucked behind glass cases.
Above, the high glass ceiling catches a rainbow of laser lights that dance across it like colorful stars.
I tug at the strap of my sleek, slate gray evening gown.
Much earlier, Gregor surprised me by unlocking my cell and leading me to a tasteful guest bathroom on the fifth level, instructing me to shower and get dressed for a formal event.
I won’t lie…I probably spent close to an hour under the hot water, washing my hair, scrubbing and shaving my body, and then just relaxing as the jets beat a soothing pattern into my skin.
By the time I re-emerged from the spacious, green-tiled enclosure, my skin resembled a wizened old man’s.
I barely had time to wrap a towel around myself before someone started banging on the door. When I cracked it open, Luca stuck his boot into the gap and pushed, forcing me to stumble back.
“Here.” He shoved a garment bag and two shopping totes into my hands. “Next time you decide to drain the entire metro area of water, I’m coming inside whether you’re finished or not. I have better things to do than wait around with my thumb up my ass while you play pretend spa day.”
If scowls were rated on a scale of one to ten, his expression was a solid fifteen.
Any fiercer, and I’d worry he’d harness his dour mood to disintegrate me on the spot.
“If Dante named his men after the Disney characters, you would definitely be Grumpy.” And yup, his scowl score ratcheted up to a seventeen. “Not a Snow White fan?”
“No, but I’m starting to relate to the evil queen, because cutting a woman’s heart out sounds better every second.”
Despite the implied threat, my lips twitched. With a glare and a noise containing some unholy hybrid of annoyance and disgust, he spun and stalked away, muttering about not having the time to help prisoners play “motherfucking dress-up.”
“Thank you!” Convinced I was starting to grow on him, I called out my appreciation.
Inside the bags, I found a matching purse and heels, an assortment of luxury-brand makeup, hair styling accessories, and the evening gown I’m currently wearing. Everything high-end and designer.
I adjust the neckline again. This beautiful gown fits like a dream, but the damn neckline plunges more than I’m used to.
I wonder if that feature was intentional and meant as some sort of built-in distraction technique.
If so, congrats to whoever picked out the dress, because countless attendees seem oblivious that my body doesn’t stop at my armpits.
My pulse beats a little too quickly as I stride with faux confidence toward a table bearing champagne in crystal flutes.
Downing half a glass in one go, I abandon the table and start weaving through the clusters of the rich and beautiful.
The men are clad in classic tuxes, and the women flaunt elegant, floor-length gowns in a palette of colors.
Gems drip from their necks and ears, and every single one of the ladies makes me feel like the imposter I am.
Why did I agree to this again? Oh, that’s right. Dante crooked his little finger and asked. I must be a glutton for punishment.
Just as I go to steal another sip of my drink, my right ear crackles, startling me. I inhale the liquid and promptly fall into a coughing fit.
Very stealthy.
I tune out another burst of interference while my earpiece searches for a stronger signal. “Nod if you hear me.”
Awareness prickles over my skin as I dip my chin. Dante’s posing as a member of the catering crew and tracking my every move. He can talk to me, but I can’t speak to him. The earpiece is smaller than the ones in spy movies and fits on the tip of my pinkie finger.
Since Dante is persona non grata at this Conti-sponsored event, I’m tasked with coaxing a looser-lipped family member into spilling the beans on long-lost Enzo. Only, I don’t recognize any of these people, which is where Dante comes in.
In disguise. Apparently, his mug is too distinctive for him to saunter in without modifications.
As I’m mulling over those details, an older gentleman in an ill-fitting navy suit approaches. “Why, hello, my dear. Aren’t you looking lovely tonight?”
He bows and presses his lips to my knuckles in a throwback to a previous century, and my eyes widen like a deer in the headlights.
“Bernardo Rossi,” Dante whispers in my ear. “Took over as CEO of Rossi’s Candies after he killed his brother. He’s ambitious but otherwise harmless so long as you don’t have anything he wants.”
Right. No candies for Bernardo. Good to know.
Summoning a stiff smile, I murmur a polite thank you and excuse myself to the ladies’ room.
As I make my escape, Dante voices his approval. “Good girl.”
The husky purr races through my body before settling low in my belly.
Discreetly craning my neck, I spot him over near a column. His smirk tells me he knew exactly how the praise would land, the bastard.
Two can play at that game.
Dante
“Sara, what the hell are you doing?”
I monitor her from my post behind a bronzed Greek sculpture. Dressed in black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt, I blend in with the rest of the catering staff. Most are hired on a gig-by-gig basis, so none of them really know one another. Perfect for my purposes.
A member of my team, Ricardo, is a pro at special effects makeup.
He even has a YouTube channel dedicated to his hobby.
Using silicone prosthetics, Ricky widened my nose and rounded the shape of my jaw.
In my simple black-rimmed glasses, I could probably pass as Clark Kent.
With my new face and a waiter’s stolen uniform, someone would need to examine me carefully to identify me.
And if there’s one thing I know about the wealthy, it’s that most of them don’t pay any attention to the less fortunate.
For a few seconds, Sara vanishes into the crowd.
Her golden head pops out about fifteen feet away, her hair gleaming in the display lighting.
She appears to be on a trajectory that will lead her closer to me.
Sure enough, she navigates in my direction, and when she stops a few feet away, I cease breathing.
Already risqué, the neckline of her dress somehow turned into a direct invitation to sin somewhere between the Monet and the Renoir.
I shoot a glare at Mario Antonio, who’s staring at her tits with so much focus, he may as well buy them dinner. In fact, I’m pretty sure I spy drool on the corner of his mouth.
Bastard. If I weren’t incognito, I’d introduce him to my fist.
“Sara,” I hiss. “Fix your neckline.”
When her hand drifts up, I expel a relieved sigh. Then I almost choke as, instead of covering up more, the little minx pushes the material farther to the side, exposing even more of her cleavage.
With a sparkle in her eyes, she aims a subtle wink at me before sashaying off with an added swing to her hips. The blond curls cascading over one shoulder have me fantasizing about pressing my lips and teeth to her supple skin. My cock swells painfully against my zipper at the thought.
Oh, tesoro. You’ll pay for that later.
My hand tightens around my phone. This entire plan is driving me crazy, mainly because I hate my lack of control.
The powerlessness evoked here reminds me too much of being locked up.
Unfortunately, I have no way of assuaging my hang-ups tonight.
The outcome is entirely out of my hands, and in order for any of this to work, I’m putting more faith in Sara than I’ve ever put in anyone.
The truth is that relying on her comes more naturally than distrusting her. She could betray me ten times over, and I’d probably keep coming back for more because that’s how much she has me coiled around her little finger.
Sara has always been my obsession, my favorite drug, and now I hope that bringing her deeper into my world wasn’t a mistake.
Materializing out of nowhere, a girl in a server’s uniform elbows me in the ribs, and I nearly drop my phone.
I spin and glare at her, but apparently she’s too miffed to read the promise of pain in my gaze.
With her crisp, starched shirt and her hair pulled back into a tight, sleek bun, she clearly takes her job very seriously.
A proverbial queen of the New York City catering scene.
The girl’s hazel eyes dart between mine and my phone, and she scoffs.
“What the hell, man?” Her voice is clipped and irritated.
“We’re out here working our asses off, and you’re what?
Having phone sex? Here.” She shoves an empty silver platter into my abdomen, and I grunt.
“Take this into the kitchen. Escobar has three dozen ceviche shooters that need to go out now.”
The girl’s gone before I can utter a word.
When my gaze swings back toward Sara, I find her inspecting a plaque under a canvas of splattered paint.
I suppose the Catering Queen has a point.
After all, I’m trying to fly under the radar.
So, I slip my phone into my shirt pocket, with the microphone pointing up, and adjust the platter in my palm to give off the impression that I’ve been doling out dozens of ceviche shooters.
While not perfect, this setup will do for now.
Clearing my throat, I talk Sara through another three introductions, giving her a glimpse into more of the key players in the room. Sara doesn’t shy away or stumble over her words once, almost as if she belongs within these circles of dangerous men.
“We wouldn’t be able to sanction a union like that, regardless of how attached you might be. It’s too much of a risk.”