Chapter Two SANTINO
People thought they knew me. They saw magazine photos and assumed they had me figured out. Santino Moretti. Thirty years old. Rich as sin. Reckless. Untouchable. Playboy.
I was photographed leaving galas with women whose faces lived on billboards and fashion campaigns. Haute couture models draped over my arm beneath camera flashes. Legs for days. Diamonds around their throats. Sharp cheekbones and practiced smiles.
The papers loved me. But none of them knew shit.
The women changed. The parties changed. The cities changed. But I stayed exactly the same. Cold. Angry. Empty.
Four years ago, I had lost Angelo. My twin. My other fucking half.
People always talked about twins like it was something mystical. Like we shared thoughts or felt each other's pain. Most of it was bullshit. But Angelo had been the only person in the world who understood me without explanations. The only one.
Then Leonardo Moretti had taken him from me. The Serpent. I still remembered getting the call. Still remembered blood seeping from the many snake bites on my twin’s massacred body. Still remembered dropping to my knees beside Angelo's body while the world around me turned into noise.
Four fucking years. And I still occasionally turned my head expecting to see him beside me. Still woke up some nights hearing snakes hissing. Still wanted Leo dead. Hatred had become a companion after that. Quiet. Constant. Familiar.
So I drank. I fucked. I smiled for the cameras. I played the role everyone expected because pretending was easier than letting people see what was underneath.
And underneath? Underneath I was just a man missing half his soul.
That night, the club breathed beneath me. From the private surveillance room overlooking the main floor, I leaned back in the leather chair and watched After Dark come alive through walls of camera feeds.
Amber light spilled across bodies moving in slow motion. Whiskey caught gold beneath hanging chandeliers. Shadows slid over black silk and bare skin and expensive suits. Bass rolled through the building like a pulse, low enough to feel in my bones.
People came here for a lot of reasons. To forget. To indulge. To disappear. Some came looking for trouble. Some came hoping trouble would find them.
My gaze drifted lazily across the screens until it stopped. Screen Seven. A brunette. Pretty little thing. And completely, catastrophically out of place.
I sat forward slowly. Three girls surrounded her, all glittering smiles and designer dresses, but I barely noticed them. My attention locked on the brunette standing in the middle.
Dark hair spilled over bare shoulders in soft waves. Her tiny black dress hugged curves just enough to make a man stare longer than he should. Big dark eyes darted around the room cautiously.
Not afraid. Confused. There was a difference. She looked like she'd walked through the wrong door and was too stubborn to admit it. Cute. Very fucking cute.
I watched her stare at a couple disappearing toward private rooms. She looked horrified. Then offended. Like the entire club had personally insulted her. Jesus Christ, I couldn't stop staring.
Marco glanced over from the chair beside me.
Marco Colombo had been with me for eight years now.
Right hand. Bodyguard. Professional babysitter against his will.
Mid-thirties. Broad shoulders. Dark hair cut short enough to look military even though he'd never served.
Permanent five o'clock shadow. Permanent expression of disappointment.
He wasn't family by blood, but after Angelo died, he had quietly become the closest thing I had left. Not that either of us would ever say that shit out loud.
Marco had a talent for surviving me. Which was impressive considering most people either feared me, lied to me, or ended up face down somewhere unpleasant.
He did none of those things. Mostly he just looked irritated.
He'd seen me drag models onto yachts in Monaco, disappear with actresses in Milan, start fights in clubs because somebody breathed wrong, and nearly put bullets into men over smaller things. Which meant he recognized danger signs before anyone else did.
Marco glanced at Screen Seven. Then slowly pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh no."
I looked at him. "What?"
He sighed heavily. "That face."
I frowned. "What face?"
"The face where somebody's about to become your problem,” he muttered.
I ignored him. Because I noticed something else about the pretty little brunette on that screen. Little details. The jewelry. The posture. The way she scanned exits without realizing she was doing it. The body language. The taught confidence.
Mafia. Definitely. Girls outside our world didn't move like that. Didn't carry themselves like they'd grown up surrounded by armed men and whispered threats over dinner tables.
No. She belonged to our world. But I didn't know her. Strange. I knew everyone. Especially daughters. Especially pretty daughters. And I would've remembered her.
I stood. Marco looked genuinely concerned now. "No."
I adjusted my cuffs. "No, what?"
"No, whatever psychotic thing you're about to do,” he said firmly.
I reached for the mask anyway. Black leather with red detailing. The Devil. The entire club knew the mask. Nobody knew me. Not here. I slid it over my face and smiled. Perfect.
The crowd shifted the moment I stepped onto the floor. People always moved. Always watched. I barely noticed. Because she was sitting alone at the bar now. Her friends had abandoned her completely. Traitors.
She crossed one leg over the other and looked around suspiciously, fingers tapping against her little clutch purse. Waiting. Annoyed. Cute.
I walked toward her slowly. No hurry. No reason to rush something interesting. She looked up the second I reached her. Her eyes traveled over me.
Suit. Hands. Mask. Back up to my eyes. Then her own gaze narrowed suspiciously. Not impressed yet. Interesting.
I leaned against the bar beside her. Close enough to catch the scent of vanilla and red apples. Close enough to notice the tiny crease between her brows. "Bet I can guess what you're here for."
She turned toward me slowly. “Bet you can’t."
Attitude. I liked attitude. I tilted my head. "Bachelorette party."
Silence. Her eyes widened. "How did you know?"
I grinned beneath the mask. "You've got three overdressed friends running around acting feral, you're wearing white heels, and you aren’t supervised by a bunch of thugs. Last chance at freedom?"
She stared. I continued calmly. "Plus, you have that expression."
"What expression?" she questioned.
"The one that says please get me out of here, I don’t want to marry this guy and his blood money,” I smirked.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "So... Are you stalking me?"
I laughed. A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. The sound surprised even me. Because for four years, after Angelo, I hadn't laughed much at all.
And somehow this little brunette I'd never seen before was standing in the middle of my club glaring at me like I personally offended her existence, and turning me on at the same time. God help her. Because I already wanted to know her name. And that never ended well.
“Nope,” I smirked. “Just really good at observing. And I can read you like a book.”
“Well,” she said. “Why don’t you go away and read someone else.”
I leaned against the bar beside her and watched annoyance take over her face. Jesus Christ. She looked offended by me. Not scared. Not flustered. Offended.
I was already having fun. Most women looked at me one of two ways. Interested or intimidated. Sometimes both. Usually both. This girl looked like she was trying to determine whether I deserved a drink thrown in my face. I wanted to see how long it would take.
The bartender appeared beside us. "Usual, boss?"
I lifted a hand without looking away from her. "Not tonight."
"You own this place?" she asked.
I turned toward her slowly. "Nope."
She stared. Then narrowed her eyes harder. "You absolutely own this place."
I smiled beneath the mask. Smart little thing. I looked her over again while pretending not to. Tiny black dress. White heels. Dark hair spilling over one bare shoulder. Pretty mouth currently twisted with suspicion.
And those eyes. Fuck. Those big eyes were dangerous. I looked back toward the shelves of liquor before I started staring like a psychopath. "I have a proposition."
"Men who say I have a proposition never have good intentions,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously.
"That feels judgmental.” I grinned.
"It feels accurate,” she shifted back.
I shifted toward her slightly. "One game."
"No."
I blinked. I was genuinely offended. "You didn't even ask what the game was."
"Because you're wearing a devil mask in some weird nightclub and smiling like a serial killer,” she reminded me.
I put a hand over my chest. "You wound me."
"It doesn't look fatal." She smirked. “Unfortunately.”
Christ. I liked her. I liked her way too fucking much already.
"Fine," I sighed dramatically. "You don't trust me."
"I absolutely do not,” she confirmed.
"Then I'll go first,” I suggested.
She hesitated. I watched curiosity and common sense fight behind her eyes. Curiosity was winning. I nodded toward the bartender. "I bet I can guess what you're drinking."
She crossed her arms. "And if you're wrong?"
I pretended to think. "You choose my punishment."
"And if you're right?" she asked, more cautious now.
I looked at her. At the tiny stubborn lift of her chin. At the way she kept pretending not to smile. At the way her fingers tapped lightly against her purse. I smiled slowly beneath the mask. "You hold my hand for thirty seconds."
"What kind of psychotic reward is that?" she hissed.
I stared at her. "Psychotic?"
"Yes,” she said, nodding.
"Thirty seconds of hand-holding and suddenly I'm a criminal." I laughed.
"You said it, not me.” She shrugged, pretending she wasn’t shivering with excitement at the thought.