Sinful Eve (Greek Heat)

1. Olivia

Olivia

M y alarm clock's scream rockets my heart into my throat. I slam my palm against it, but my pulse keeps hammering as my mind races ahead to tonight. The Gataki wedding. Just thinking those words makes my stomach clench. The sensible part of me—the part that color-codes her calendar and always backs up her files to a cloud—knows I'm crossing a line by photographing a mafia wedding. Alleged mafia, I remind myself, but the word is as hollow as the excuses I've swallowed since I took their deposit.

The morning light creeping through my blinds paints stripes across my crumpled comforter, and I trace them with my finger, putting off the moment I have to face reality. The reality is I fed my skeletal checking account, and the stack of unpaid bills on my desk, with bloody money. I agreed to spend my evening photographing a crime family’s Christmas wedding. Alleged crime family.

My toes curl away from the icy hardwood as I force myself out of bed. The thermostat reads sixty degrees—a brilliant money-saving strategy that seemed smarter before I spent two months in Florida caring for Mom. Now, Chicago's December feels like it's trying to freeze the marrow in my bones. I wrap my arms around myself, remembering Mom's face when I told her I had to return to work. The way her mouth pinched tight, trying to hide her worry. "Just be careful, Livvy," she'd said. She’d sensed I'd do something desperate once the medical bills rolled in.

My camera bag sits in the corner, already packed for tonight. Three backup batteries, extra memory cards, my best low-light lenses—everything meticulously prepared because I can't afford a single mistake. Not with this client. My stomach does another flip as I imagine trying to explain to Carlo Gataki why I missed the first dance because of equipment failure. The man's presence fills a room like smoke, heavy and dangerous. When he'd interviewed me for the job, his dark eyes had stripped away every defense, every practiced line about my "artistic vision," until I stood naked under his gaze.

Damn, the man and his raptor eyes. The police probably kept him under twenty-four hours surveillance. Because an infant could see that he was trouble. Too bad, I didn't have time to dance, or sleep , with danger. I press my forehead against the cold window glass, and my breath fogs the pane. The truth is, I'm not just desperate for money—I'm desperate to prove myself. Two months away cost me more than savings. My regulars found other photographers. My reviews dropped. One bride even posted that I was "unreliable" because I'd canceled her booking when Mom's infection got worse. Each lost client is another crack in the foundation of everything I've built.

The Gatakis could change all that. Their circle includes half of Chicago's elite, the kind of clients who drop five figures on wedding photos without blinking. One perfect album from their wedding could rebuild my reputation overnight. If I survive the night. If none of those rumors about their "family business" are true.

I'd interviewed with the happy couple, Nicos and Charmaine, at The Marquis Diamond. Nicos Gataki's club office had screamed money and power, from the hand-carved desk to the view of Chicago's skyline. The groom had sprawled in his leather chair like a crowned prince, while his fiancée, Dr. Charmaine Adams, sat next to him, her hand resting atop his while I shuffled through my portfolio and pitched my suggestions.

"Whatever my Queen wants, she gets," Nicos had declared, cutting off Charmaine's protest about the budget. His accent had turned the words into silk, but there was steel underneath.

She'd frowned at his words. "You do remember the bride is supposed to pay for the wedding, right?"

He'd answered by kissing her hand, and the tenderness in his eyes had melted through my reservations. Didn't matter the couple, love is love. "Do you remember, agapi mou, that there is no amount of money I wouldn't spend to make you happy?"

She'd sighed. Who wouldn't? I'd almost become a puddle of mush myself. They were a ' what if ' couple. One of those couples that made people go: "What if true love was real? What if a man really did put you first? What if you didn't have to spend your life hoping for a prince?" ‘ What if ' couples made me wish I could work for free.

They were so different from the ' as ifs .' As if s married because their friends did, because they wanted children, because they needed a spouse to feel successful. They grumbled things like: ‘ As if I have time for this. As if I have the money for that.’ Sadly, I'd seen my name sliding into the as if column. I didn't have the time, the patience, or the will to invest in a relationship. God help me, but I'd given up on ever being part of a ' what if ' couple. Instead, something temporary, one or two nights of being loved on, was all I could manage.

Carlo Gataki would have been perfect. I'd looked at the man standing silently in the background when I’d met the bride and groom. He never interrupted but he also never took his eyes off me. It took all my resources not to squirm. My eyes had flicked to him again. Drop-dead gorgeous—I didn't know if it was a misnomer or not, but it felt right. Would he be interested in a one-night fling? Or would he be the type who would cling and hang on, squeezing out the last breath of a relationship?

Hmph, as if .

"I've seen your work, Olivia," Charmaine had said, pulling me from my musings. "Maria couldn't stop raving about how you captured her daughter's quincea?era." She gave me a slight smile. "And I appreciate that you understand... diverse communities need representation behind the lens too."

I'd been surprised they'd picked me—my rates weren't the highest, but they weren't bargain basement either. But watching them together, I'd gotten it. Despite the designer watch on his wrist and that casually mentioned private jet, Charmaine had the same down-to-earth vibe as my regular clients. Just with a future husband who treated money like most people treat pocket lint.

"We have other appointments," Nicos had announced, already standing. "Carlo will handle the details." He'd cupped Charmaine's face. "Your designer is waiting, Doc."

Char had laughed and shaken her head. "The designer, the seamstress—I could have easily found something in a bridal magazine."

"And now you don't have to." Nicos had pulled her into his side. "Let me do this for you, Dr. Adams—soon-to-be Gataki. You work so hard, too hard. I love you. Let me pamper you." He'd cupped her face and gently kissed her lips until she'd sighed and nodded.

Aww, what if?

***

After the couple had left, Carlo had sat behind the desk. All six feet of dark suit and smoldering intensity. He was charged with security for the wedding, and he'd laid out the protocols for the evening. "One non-negotiable rule," he'd said in a low voice. "Some guests prefer privacy. You'll be given a list of who can and cannot be photographed."

"That's not how wedding photography works," I'd argued. "Candid moments—"

"Non-negotiable," he'd repeated. His eyes had locked onto mine, until I'd agreed. "Good, with that settled, everything else is pretty standard. You'll sign the usual N.D.A." He'd slid a folder of disclosures to me. "After you sign, I'll have Nicos and Char sign as well and fax your copy to your home tonight."

He'd paused and waited until I'd looked up from the document I was skimming. The temperature in the room had jumped ten degrees as his perusal seared mine, his brow giving the slightest lift. "Or we could review it over dinner."

O.M.G. Was the hot security chief asking me out on a date? Yeah, right. As if. "No, thank you. The fax is fine. I'll leave the number with your secretary."

"The offer for dinner still stands," he'd said as I'd pushed the signed papers across the desk.

"To discuss..."

His lips had quirked up, and he'd shaken his head. "No wedding to discuss. Just two people getting to know each other over a nice meal."

Oh God. He was asking me out. I'd looked him over again. Not that I needed to re-inventory his dark hair, dark eyes, and skin tone. Dark everything, including my fantasies. Which was why instead of saying, "Yes," I'd said, "Sorry, I don't mix business with pleasure."

"Great, then we agree. The business part ends when the wedding does," he'd said with a look that had promised all kinds of pleasure.

***

I give myself a final once-over in my hallway mirror before heading to Sindicate Towers. My cheeks are already flushed from the biting wind, no blush needed. I tame my naturally curly hair into my ninja-photographer bun—sleek, professional, and guaranteed to stay put through hours of crouching and dodging. The severe style matches my modest black dress. Purposefully plain because no bride wants to see her photographer strutting around in anything eye-catching. My whole outfit is a carefully crafted disguise, designed to help me fade into the background.

Tonight, I’ll be invisible, yet everywhere, capturing every precious moment without being noticed. Well, almost every moment—Carlo's "do not photograph" list sits in my bag like a loaded gun. I push away thoughts of dark eyes and dangerous smiles. Focus, Olivia. You've got a job to do.

Staying invisible isn’t the most challenging part of wedding photography. No, the hard part comes later. When everyone leaves and goes on with their life, and I have none. I work nearly every day. Hustling to grow my business only to lose my gains when I slow down. I am a hamster in a cage. If I jump off the wheel for a moment, it stops spinning, forcing me to run twice as fast to get it going again. My last boyfriend had asked me if it was worth it. “Will this job keep you warm at night?”

Dammit, I shake my shoulders. Straightening them to shake off the withering words and glare he’d given before he’d dumped me. He’d wanted me to take two weeks off to visit his family for the holidays—two of the busiest weeks of the year. I don’t regret my decision. Even before Mom got sick, I knew he wasn’t the one. He treated me like a princess, as if I were his breakable doll. I would never hitch myself to a man who doesn’t appreciate my strength. Value it. Still, despite my resolve, I feel… lonely. It has to be the time spent caring for my mother. Seeing her alone and frail had buried a little worm in my heart. A worm which wriggles uncomfortably. Am I building an empire to live in it alone? Will I wander like some doomed queen in a Shakespearean castle, talking to ghosts?

No. Fuck that. What if I had a successful business and a life with a man who treasured me? And not for nothing, but a man who can fuck the shit out of me, because if I’m dreaming, then why not go for it? What if I can make money and make time for a relationship? I don’t-- I hate thinking it-- don’t want to end up like my mother. Although, despite her solitary life, she’d at least had me. Who do I have?

My heart thunders against my ribs when I enter Sindicate Towers and press the elevator button. The Cathedral lives up to its name—a wedding chapel masquerading as an enchanted forest. Emerald vines twist around marble columns and crystal chandeliers glimmer like stars above the dance floor. But these twinkling lights are a photographer's nightmare, creating harsh shadows that battle with the hundreds of flickering candles. My fingers twitch on my camera settings, already calculating the ISO adjustments I'll need. One wrong setting and the whole evening could turn into a grainy, unusable mess.

The security presence turns my usual stealth photographer routine into a minefield. Men in perfectly tailored suits stand strategically throughout the room, their earpieces glinting like warning signs. My stomach clenches when I spot Carlo Gataki commanding this small army. His eagle-eyed gaze cuts through the crowd and finds me instantly, as if he's been waiting. I’m dressed sedately but he stares at me like he sees my lacy thong. I didn’t understand why I chose tonight to wear my sexiest underwear—until I see him.

The man is walking temptation—thick raven hair with just enough curl to make my fingers itch to touch it, a jawline that could cut glass, and a slightly crooked nose that saves him from being too perfect. His body is all gladiator, with broad shoulders straining his suit jacket and the kind of chest that belongs on a Greek statue. My camera begs to capture him, but when our eyes lock, electricity arcs between us. His curt nod reminds me of his rules. Yes, Mr. Gray, I think, I’ll follow whatever rules you have. The thought dampens me, and my fingers shake as I unpack my equipment. I turn away, though my instincts rebel against leaving such a perfect model.

Throughout the evening, we dance our private waltz. His job is keeping secrets; mine is revealing truth. We circle each other like wary cats—a raised eyebrow here, a half-smirk there, looks that linger until my skin burns. I try to focus on my work, but my lens keeps finding him in the crowd.

Between shots, I retreat to a quiet alcove, desperate for a moment to steady my trembling hands and racing pulse. The cool marble wall against my back grounds me, but then his voice trails down my spine like warm honey.

"I didn't take you for someone who hides in corners," Carlo says. I can’t see the half-smile he favors, but I hear it,

"And I didn't take you for someone who follows photographers into dark corners."

"It's my job to notice everything." He steps closer, and his cologne—citrus and something darker—makes my head spin.

"Hmm, and it's my job to capture moments." I lift my camera like a shield.

Carlo's hand wraps around my lens, lowering it. "We discussed the rules about unauthorized photos."

"Rules that make it impossible to do my job properly," I snap, grinding my teeth together. "How am I supposed to capture genuine moments when I have to constantly check your approval for every single shot?"

"Nevertheless," he says, moving closer until I'm pinned between him and the wall, "it's what you agreed to." His thumb traces circles on my camera, and my mind helpfully supplies images of those hands on my skin instead.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly desert-dry. "Fine, I'll be more careful," I say, and I can’t help the pout. “Can I at least take your picture? I notice your name is not on the list.”

He arches a brow and shakes his head. “No. Only if you want me to come by tonight and retrieve it.”

My brows furrow. Is he forbidding me or inviting me? I stand frozen until he moves. He crowds closer, and my photographer's armor might as well be tissue paper. The wall is cool against my back, but Carlo is a furnace. I've dealt with handsy groomsmen before and know exactly where to land a strategic knee, but the predatory grace in his movements says my usual tactics would be useless. I narrow my eyes, summoning my best don't-mess-with-me glare, even as his citrus-and-patchouli scent makes my knees weak.

"Don't worry, Olivia Neal." His fingers brush my cheek, igniting a trail of fire. "This event is almost over—then we’ll have no more business between us. You know what that leaves?"

Oh, God, I do. Images of him slamming into my hard and fast, me with my legs up in the air as he grips my ass flood my system. He may be a furnace but I’m the sun. A star blazing so hot that it lights galaxies.

He drops his hand, but his gaze holds me as effectively as iron chains until a server with a question turns him away. A man I hadn’t even realized was standing next to us. What-the-heck? When was the last time I wanted a guy this much? Short answer —never. Is it the famous instalove? Hmph, I doubt it. This is something dirtier. Instalust.

The server retreats, but his appearance gives me just enough time to compose myself. Composure I lose when he leans, and his lips brush the shell of my ear. My traitorous body arches toward him like a flower seeking sun. He whispers, “Only a few more hours.” A promise he gives that feels like a threat. His hands grip the back of my neck, forcing my eyes to meet his. Forcing a response, I’m not sure I’m ready to admit.

"Please," I whisper, but the word sounds more like begging than protest. My camera hangs forgotten between us, the strap digging into my shoulders.

Our gazes lock, the air crackling with possibility. Then Carlo steps back, the spell shattering like crystal on marble. "I will," he says, voice rough. "But not yet. Back to work."

He melts into the crowd, resuming his role as security chief. I'd come here seeking peace, a moment to reset my frazzled nerves. Instead, Carlo's words have stirred up a storm inside me, turning my usual professional calm into a tempest of want and warning. I press my palm against my thundering heart, wondering when—not if—this lightning will strike.

I straighten my spine and wade back into the reception. Each shot becomes a silent conversation with Carlo across the room—his subtle nods giving permission, his frowns steering me away from forbidden subjects. We move in sync like dance partners who've practiced for years, his body language as clear as spoken commands. My skin prickles every time I feel his gaze track my movements.

The elegant reception has evolved into something wilder as the night deepens. The Cathedral pulses with color and motion, the candlelight painting everything in amber and gold. Through my lens, the bride and groom float across the dance floor as if gravity doesn't apply to them. They are one of the most dazzling couples I’ve ever photographed.

I lower my camera, struck by a question that's nagged at me all night. Who are these people really? What battles have they fought to earn this fairy tale ending? And more importantly, what am I getting myself into by letting Carlo's dangerous gravity pull me into their orbit?

I snatch a photo of Carlo. Catching him in the rare moment when his attention is divided. He speaks to an older man, his expression serious, the lines of his face etched with responsibility. His shoulders are broad and steady. Unbowed by the weight he carries.

Loud, drunken voices at the room’s far end draw everyone’s attention. Their angry snarls lift over the music. A collective gasp silences the room when Carlo enters the fray—silencing the troublemakers with a look. I tremble, imagining that look leveled at me. A sentiment I must share with everyone else—as we all exhale. What kind of power does he wield to diffuse a dangerous situation using only his presence? After the party regains its rhythm, he returns to his station near the newly wedded couple. I’m not fooled. He is no ordinary bodyguard. Earlier, his eyes had stalked mine like we were on the Savannah, and I was his prey. Now, my eyes reciprocate. Mimicking his intense look until his eyes narrow, and he tips his head. The simple cue orders me to return to photographing. Which I do, despite my heart telling me that the most compelling man in a room full of mafiosos is Carlo.

After hours of standing, I thank God for the custom comfort insoles in my plain black flats. The insoles were a tip from my nurse friend Sarah that's saved my life at countless weddings. Best investment I ever made. But even with my expensive insoles, my feet ache. I lean against a pillar and close my eyes. When I open them, Carlo is there, his gaze intense.

“You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine. Just a long day,” I say, straightening up.

Carlo studies me for a moment. “You’re good at what you do, Olivia. Not many could capture this night the way you have.”

His surprising compliment warms me. “Thank you, Carlo. You’re not so bad at your job yourself.”

“I try.” A smile tugs at his lips. I barely know him, yet my heart warms at what I instinctively know is a rare treat.

The moment lingers—as if we are both reluctant to pop the quiet bubble encasing us. Then, as if remembering himself, Carlo straightens. “We’re having a private party for the staff at Club Curve above the penthouse. Join us.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That sounded more like a command than an invitation.”

Carlo matches my raised brow and trumps it. “Exactly.” He says firmly before walking away.

I grab another shot of him. Capturing his broad shoulders, muscular back, and perfectly rounded ass cheeks. Men don’t get enough credit for having nice asses. I sigh. All the energy that had arced between us when we spoke fizzles and drains when he walks away. I sigh at the lenses, backdrops, and lighting that need to be packed and hauled to the suite the Gatakis provided for the night.

Another night, another hotel… alone. What the hell is wrong with me today? It has to be the holiday season. Carlo is still talking with the rest of the security detail near the empty head table. His eyes shift to mine as if I’ve pulled him from his conversation. He wings his brow up and openly stares. When I don’t turn away, he quirks his lip in another of those rare smiles.

He points his finger up, inviting me once again to the party that will soon take place above our heads. I nod. What the hell am I thinking? I question my sanity as I shuffle behind the bellman who’d appeared to help me with my things. This is probably a huge mistake, but I haven’t been in a man’s arms in over a year, and dammit, I’m going.