17. A Chance Encounter
A Chance Encounter
Dante
I’m not sure why I asked her to come out with me tonight.
Maybe I wanted to gauge how much of a threat she really is. Maybe I wanted to keep her close, make her feel comfortable, lower her guard. Or maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see for myself if she’s as naive as she seems.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. She said yes.
When she finally comes downstairs, dressed in a sleek black dress that clings just enough to remind me that she isn’t some fragile girl, I smirk. “Not bad,” I say, pushing off the wall.
She rolls her eyes. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
I chuckle, leading her toward the waiting car. The driver barely acknowledges us as we slide into the backseat, and the moment the door shuts, I lean back, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She’s tense.
Too tense.
“You’re overthinking,” I say, swirling the whiskey in the crystal glass I had the driver keep stocked.
She glances at me. “And you’re too relaxed.”
I smirk. “One of us has to be.”
She exhales, shifting slightly. “I just don’t know what to expect.”
“Good.” I take a slow sip. “That makes it fun.”
The car slows in front of one of my usual spots—a high-end bar frequented by men who run the city from behind the scenes. Not the flashy kind of place that screams power, but the kind that lets it hum beneath the surface.
The valet opens her door first, and she steps out, adjusting the hem of her dress as her heels click against the pavement. Her hesitation is barely noticeable, but I catch it.
She’s not used to this.
The thought is oddly satisfying.
Inside, the atmosphere is warm and rich, the low lighting casting long shadows across dark leather booths and polished marble. Conversations murmur in quiet tones, business deals slipping through the cracks like whispered confessions.
I lead her to a table near the bar, waving down a server without effort.
“Whiskey,” I order, then glance at her. “And for you?”
She considers for a second before saying, “A dirty martini.”
My lips twitch. “Classy.”
She ignores the comment, scanning the room with a look I can’t quite place.
“This your usual scene?” she asks as the drinks arrive.
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. “I have a lot of usual scenes.”
“But you thought I’d like this one?”
I smirk. “Because you don’t belong in a cage. And this place is a reminder of that.”
That catches her off guard. I see it in the way she hesitates, like she’s unsure how to respond.
Good.
Before she can come up with something, my attention shifts. A familiar presence stirs the air, a quiet pressure settling at the edge of my senses.
I glance toward the entrance just as someone steps inside.
And I swear under my breath.
Damian LaCampanella.
My grip tightens around the glass.
Of all the places, all the nights—what are the chances?
Except I don’t believe in coincidences.
Nichole notices my shift in focus. “What?”
I change my expression before turning back to her, smirking as I lean back in my chair.
“Looks like someone’s interested in you.”
Her brows furrow, and before she can turn, a voice slides through the space between us like silk.
“I almost didn’t recognize you without your best friend clinging to your side.”
Smooth. Confident. Just amused enough to be dangerous.
Nichole turns and so do I.
The second I see him, my blood turns to fire.
Damian LaCampanella.
That smug bastard walks in like he owns the place, calm and composed, like he didn’t just step into the lion’s den. Like he doesn’t see me, or worse—like he doesn’t care that I’m here at all.
I grit my teeth, forcing my fingers to unclench from around my glass. Not here. Not now.
I smooth my expression, keeping my body relaxed as I take a slow sip of whiskey, even though everything in me screams to put a bullet between his eyes.
Nichole, oblivious to the raw hatred burning through my veins, turns slightly in her chair, her gaze locking onto him.
And then—her lips part in surprise.
Ah, hell no.
I see the flicker of recognition, the way her body straightens just the slightest bit, and I want to rip this entire table apart.
How the hell do they know each other?
The amusement in Damian’s expression sharpens as he approaches, that same unreadable smirk tugging at his lips, and I swear, it takes every ounce of restraint not to lunge across the table.
“I almost didn’t recognize you without your best friend clinging to your side,” he says smoothly, his voice low and rich with false charm.
Nichole blinks, clearly caught off guard. “You—”
“Valentina,” Damian clarifies, his smirk widening slightly. “It’s good to see you again, Nichole.”
My fingers tighten around my glass.
What. The. Hell.
Nichole tilts her head, clearly studying him. She’s interested. Curious.
I see it.
And I don’t like it.
At all.
She leans forward slightly. “What are you doing here?”
“Having a drink,” Damian replies casually, as if his presence is the most natural thing in the world. “Didn’t realize I’d run into such familiar faces.”
I grind my teeth so hard it’s a miracle I don’t shatter them.
“Small world,” I say flatly, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.
His eyes flick to me for the first time, acknowledging me with the smallest, most infuriating nod.
Like I’m insignificant.
Like I don’t matter.
Like he’s not standing in my goddamn space, talking to my sister.
“Dante Beretti,” he says smoothly, like my name doesn’t taste like venom in his mouth. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’d hate to lie.”
I force a tight smirk. “Wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
The tension between us is a live wire, sizzling with barely restrained hostility.
Nichole looks between us, sensing the shift. “You two know each other?”
Damian’s smile doesn’t falter. “We’ve crossed paths.”
That’s one way to put it.
He’s been a thorn in my side, an enemy, a problem that refuses to be dealt with properly.
And now, here he is, casually sliding into conversation with my sister like it’s nothing.
Nichole, still watching him, tilts her head slightly. “I didn’t think I’d run into you again so soon.”
I swear, I almost break my glass.
Damian chuckles, the sound low and knowing. “Neither did I.”
Liar.
I don’t believe for a second that this is a coincidence.
He’s here for a reason. And I need to find out what the hell it is before it’s too late.
I force my expression into something smooth, something dangerous, and lean back in my chair, watching the exchange with thinly veiled contempt.
The ice in my glass clinks softly as I swirl the whiskey, barely hearing Nichole and Damian over the roaring in my ears.
This bastard is standing here like he belongs, like he doesn’t have a target on his back the size of this entire city.
And Nichole—she’s still looking at him, still entertaining his presence, unaware of the goddamn war waging just beneath the surface.
I need to shut this down. Now.
“I don’t think you ever answered her question,” I say smoothly, interrupting whatever subtle game Damian thinks he’s playing. “What are you doing here?”
His attention flicks to me, lazy, uninterested. Like he barely remembers I’m part of this conversation.
“I did answer,” he says, unbothered. “Having a drink.”
I don’t buy it for a second.
“You’re a long way from your usual haunts,” I press, keeping my tone casual. “This bar isn’t exactly your style, LaCampanella.”
He smirks. “And you’d know my style?”
Nichole’s gaze bounces between us, picking up on the tension.
“I guess I was wrong,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “You two seem a little more than just passing acquaintances.”
Damian chuckles lowly. “You could say that.”
I grind my teeth.
Before I can cut in, he takes a slow sip of his drink, as if he has all the time in the world. “I have to say, Nichole, I didn’t expect to run into you again so soon.”
Nichole.
He says her name like it belongs to him. Like he’s been saying it for years.
I see the flicker of amusement in his ocean-blue eyes, the way he’s testing me, seeing how far he can push.
Nichole raises a brow, intrigued but guarded. “Why’s that?”
“Just didn’t take you for the type to frequent places like this.” His eyes gleam with something unreadable. “But then again… I didn’t think I’d see you at the art auction either.”
My muscles coil.
Nichole gives him a curious look. “You were at the auction?”
Damian’s lips twitch. “Didn’t you see me?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t.”
I did.
I saw him the second he stepped forward after my father won that painting. And I saw the way Antonio barely kept his composure when Damian congratulated him.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling through my nose. I need to control this situation before it spirals any further.
“Guess that makes twice now,” I say, meeting his gaze. “You seem to keep showing up where you’re not expected.”
Damian doesn’t blink. “Or maybe, I just have good taste.”
Nichole lets out a small laugh at that, and my patience snaps.
I set my glass down a little too hard, leveling him with a slow, sharp smirk. “You must be real confident to walk into Beretti territory without a care in the world.”
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something there—something calculative.
“I never said I don’t have a care in the world,” he says easily. “I just don’t have anything to fear.”
dicky son of a—
Nichole shifts slightly beside me, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Damian’s gaze lingers on her for a fraction too long before he shakes his head, a slow, knowing movement. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
I clench my jaw.
The bastard is pushing his limits. He’s not saying anything, but he’s saying everything.
Nichole, still too damn curious, tilts her head. “Are you always this vague?”
Damian chuckles. “Only when it’s interesting.”
I see it—the way she takes him in, the way her body is angled toward him, her focus locked onto his like he’s the only person in the damn room.
No. Absolutely not.
I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “We should get going.”
Nichole blinks, as if realizing how much time has passed. “Already?”