Chapter 9
Present
Upper East Side, New York City
THE PENTHOUSE SMELLED FAINTLY OF leather and bourbon, sleek and impersonal despite belonging to our family.
White couches and polished marble floors gleamed under the recessed lights, every surface too clean, too modern, like a showroom no one really lived in.
The only warmth came from the city outside – Vegas spilling its neon across the floor-to-ceiling glass like a spilled deck of cards, each light flashing temptation.
I lay sprawled across the couch, scrolling lazily through my phone, legs crossed at the ankle. My reflection in the glass flickered every time a billboard shifted outside.
Across the room, Tony was warming up, bare fists slicing the air with crisp precision. His shadow danced against the glass, wild and untamed, while his knuckles cracked like distant gunfire. He looked sharp, focused – born for the kind of violence he lived in.
We were supposed to leave in thirty minutes. Underneath a casino controlled by the Camorra, the night’s fight waited for him, the smell of sweat, money, and blood thick in the air even before we arrived.
I’d be there, front row, supporting him like I always had. But there was more riding on tonight. Father’s instructions still rang in my head: Meet with the Camorra’s representative. Keep it clean. Keep it professional.
“Tony,” I said without looking up from my phone, “Do me a favor and don’t do anything crazy tonight.”
He laughed under his breath, rolling his shoulders as if loosening the weight of my warning. “Crazy? I’m just showing up, sorellina. Throw a few punches, collect my money, kiss the crowd. You worry too much.”
I finally glanced up, narrowing my eyes. “I need this meeting to go well. If you end up breaking someone’s jaw outside the ring – again – it’ll be my problem to clean up. Not yours.”
Tony grinned, wolfish and unbothered, wiping the sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt. “Relax. The Camorra loves me. I’m their favorite show.”
“They love betting on you,” I corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, blowing a kiss toward the glass like the Strip was his audience. “They’ll be eating out of your hand by the time you’re done with them anyway. Me?” He tapped his chest. “I just make sure the blood stays entertaining.”
I sighed, locking my phone and tossing it onto the couch beside me. He was impossible.
But he’d never lost a fight.
The neon lights pulsed outside, reflected in his smile.
And for one night, in this city of sin, we were both playing our parts.
The velvet ropes parted like waves, Tony’s crew spilling ahead of me with all the swagger of men who thought the night belonged to them. Maybe it did.
The Camorra loved my brother; his name drew the bets like moths to flame.
I followed, heels clicking against the marble, my dress hugging every line of me like a second skin. Tight. Short. Red, of course. Heads turned as we moved, but I didn’t so much as blink. Authority was an armor, and tonight, I wore it well.
The casino glittered – crystal chandeliers dripping light like melted diamonds, the air thick with perfume, cigars, and the electricity of money changing hands. Vegas nights had their own pulse, and I matched its rhythm stride for stride.
And then, I saw him.
The broad line of his shoulders, the way his hand curved lazily around a glass, gold catching against the cuff of an obscene watch. Matteo Di’Ablo. Black suit, sharp as sin, white shirt open at the throat, the barest edge of tan skin visible. Casual in the kind of way only power could afford.
I slowed my pace instinctively, almost falling in a trance of his presence. I hadn’t seen him since the End of Summer Rooftop White Party held by my family. Since our...
‘Don’t worry, princesa. I won’t tell anyone your secret...’
Talk. In the bathroom.
It’d been almost two months since then, and I still had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from reacting.
I quickened my pace. The last thing I needed was him thinking I’d noticed him.
If I just walked past –
The crowd surged, bodies pressing in around us, and I stumbled into the very person I was trying to avoid.
My shoulder collided with his huge, muscular back – and before I could curse the heels I had insisted I wear despite Tony warning me of the dark atmosphere – a powerful arm wrapped around my waist, catching me.
Strong. Unshakable.
Matteo steadied me effortlessly, his touch searing hot against my skin. My breath caught – just once, just long enough for me to hate myself for it.
Our eyes locked. His – dark, amused, sharp as the glass in his hand. Mine – wide, betraying too much.
The noise of the casino seemed to dissolve, the crush of bodies blurring into nothing as though the world itself had stepped back to give him room.
His gaze pinned me in place, pulling me into a silence so heavy it pressed against my ribs.
Every instinct screamed at me to tear away, to remember the business ties between us, the danger he embodied – but in that frozen heartbeat, all I could feel was the pull.
His eyes lingered, not with gentleness, but with a challenge, as though daring me to admit that I wasn’t immune to the charming, sex-God Matteo Di’Ablo.
It was unbearable, that closeness. The heat of his hand against my waist, the sharp gleam in his stare, the faint curve of his mouth that said he knew exactly what I was thinking.
For the first time in months, the carefully tended hatred thinned into something rawer, sharper, terrifyingly alive.
My chest rose with a breath I couldn’t steady, and still, I didn’t look away. Neither did he.
“Donna…” His voice was smooth, in a way that grated and tempted all at once. He steadied me slowly, helping me find my balance again on my incredibly high heels, as if testing how long I’d let him touch me. “I didn’t realize Vegas was on your schedule.”
I straightened, brushing him off, heat prickling my skin where he’d touched me. “Don’t play dumb. You knew I’d be here.”
One corner of his mouth curved, just barely. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “If I’d known, I would’ve put in as much effort as you have in looking so beautiful for me.”
“Trust me, you tried.” I glanced at him deliberately – sharp suit, undone collar, expensive watch glinting under the chandeliers. My lips curved into something darker. “Whereas, I – will be in a grave before I put anything on for you.”
His laugh was low, effortless, enough to draw the attention of a cocktail waitress who passed us by, her eyes flicking over Matteo. His attention stayed solely on me.
“That’s because women don’t put on clothes for me, Donna.” His eyes lowered to my cleavage in the dress, his gaze burning me there. “They take them off.”
“I’m shocked pigs like you still get laid.”
“You wound me, princesa.” He leaned closer, just enough that I caught the faintest, maddening trace of smoke and cologne.
“But if insulting me makes it easier for you to stand this close… By all means…” He murmured, voice all sin, as he took so much of my personal space, it felt intimate. “Continue.”
I tilted my head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stepping back. “I don’t need to insult you, Matteo. You do that just by existing.”
His eyes glinted. “And yet, here you are. In my arms not two seconds ago.”
“Oh, please! Get over yourself. It was the crowd,” I snapped.
“Of course it was, Francesca.”
The noise of the casino swelled around us – dice rolling, chips clattering, laughter spilling from tables. But in that moment, it felt like we stood in the still center of it all, every movement charged, every glance heavier than it should have been.
And God help me, I couldn’t look away.
Heat flared in my chest – part anger, part something else I refused to name. My hand twitched against my side, wanting to push him back, but it didn’t move.
“You think you know me. But you have no idea what I’m capable of.”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze flicking from my eyes to my mouth and back again. The air between us stretched tight.
“No,” He murmured, eyes open and sincere. “But I’d like to.”
The words hit harder than they should have. My pulse stumbled, and I hated that he could probably see it in the curve of my throat.
“Francesca!” Tony’s voice cut through the noise, loud and commanding as ever. He was on the other side of the room, his crew flanking him like shadows. “Let’s go. Both of you,” He added to Matteo.
Just like that, the tension fractured like glass underfoot.
I felt Matteo’s eyes linger on me for a beat longer, heavy with something unspoken. Then he straightened, finishing the last sip of his drink before setting the glass aside.
“We’ll finish this conversation later, princesa.”
He said it like it was our secret.
Like me and him actually had something worth hiding.
I exhaled, too hot to keep arguing.
Forcing my shoulders square, I turned toward Tony. But as we fell into motion, I could still feel Matteo’s gaze on my skin – the rough graze of his suit brushing my arm – like a touch that hadn’t quite ended.
The VIP section stood just before the ring like a throne. The roar of the crowd carried over, smoke and sweat and money thick in the air.
Tony, of course, had secured the best seats. Front row. Uninterrupted view. And because my brother was either a sadist or thought he was funny, he’d left me sitting right next to Matteo Di’Ablo.
He smirked, clapping Matteo on the shoulder. “Prime seats for my prime people. Enjoy yourselves, yeah? I’ll be back when it’s my turn to kill.”
And just like that, he was gone.
I turned to find Matteo already watching me, far too relaxed in his tailored suit, his big frame relaxed into the chair like it was made for him. He looked like sin against velvet, sipping something dark and expensive, one brow arched in lazy amusement.