REBECCA
Months Later…
"Never trust anyone, Becca."
My father told me that when I was ten years old. Turns out he knew exactly what he was talking about. Which is ironic. Because he wasn't just the first person to break my trust. He was the one who obliterated it.
The memory still comes to me sometimes. Not all of it. Just pieces. My mother screaming. My youngest brother crying. The smell of lit matches. Blood. So much blood.
Then silence. Which was the worst. The utter silence after so much chaos, violence and pain.
When it was over, four members of my family were dead. My father among them. Only Rachel and I survived. Some people spend their lives trying to understand why. I stopped asking that question years ago. There is no answer that brings people back.
No explanation that makes murder make sense.
No excuse that matters. The only thing that mattered was Rachel.
Rachel, who was twelve and refused to sleep unless I held her hand.
Rachel, who cried herself to sleep every night for over a year, who woke up screaming.
Rachel, who followed me everywhere because she was terrified I'd disappear too. For a long time, I was all she had.
And she was all I had. The foster system tried to separate us twice.
The first social worker learned very quickly why that was a bad idea.
The second one was smarter. After that, nobody tried again.
Rachel and I survived together. The way people survive natural disasters.
One ugly day at a time. Then one morning I woke up, and she was gone.
Just... gone.
No goodbye.
No note.
No body.
No answers.
The police called her a runaway. The first detective assigned to the case suggested she probably met a boy.
The second suggested drugs. The third suggested I should prepare myself for the possibility that she didn't want to be found.
I broke his nose. Not my finest moment. Also not my worst. That was four years ago.
Since then, I've followed every lead. Every rumor.
Every maybe. Every possibility. Most of them went nowhere.
Some cost me money. Others cost me sleep.
One nearly got me stabbed. Still worth it.
Because Rachel is out there somewhere. She has to be.
And until I know otherwise, I won't stop looking.
The catering tray in my hands suddenly feels heavier.
"Beccs."
I glance up. My boss jerks his head toward the ballroom. "Less daydreaming. More serving."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
He glares. I smile sweetly. He leaves.
The smile stays in place until he's gone. People are always surprised when they find out I'm not nice. It's my face. Big eyes. Soft features. The kind of face people describe as angelic. Innocent. Trustworthy.
I hate it. Or, at least, I used to. These days I've learned to appreciate the advantages. Most people take one look at me and assume I'm harmless. Sweet. Easy to push around. Those people tend to make mistakes.
The foster mother who tried to separate Rachel and me learned that after finding three dozen spiders in her bedroom.
The boy who cornered my sister in the cafeteria learned it when an entire colony of fire ants mysteriously appeared in his underwear drawer, and he didn't realize it until he put his shorts on...
Then there is the private investigator who eventually took pity on me and started helping with Rachel's case, who still claims I scare him. He's not wrong. He's the only person in the entire world who got a peek behind the curtain. A short one. But it was enough.
Looking innocent is useful. It gives people permission to underestimate you. And underestimated people get away with murder.
I adjust the tray and step through the double doors into the ballroom. The sight hits me like a champagne cork to the chest. Holy shit.
Crystal chandeliers drip with light, casting rainbows across marble floors.
Designer dresses in silk and sequins glide past like living jewels.
Women dripping in diamonds and emeralds that probably cost more than I’ll earn in my entire lifetime—probably ten lifetimes— chatter lively.
Politicians and businessmen laugh over glasses of wine that cost more than my rent.
The air smells like money, perfume, and power.
For a second, I just stand there, tray balanced perfectly, letting the luxury wash over me. Wow. I knew rich people lived like this—I'm not an idiot—but seeing it up close? Actually being inside it? It's something else entirely.
What would it feel like to belong here? To wear one of those floor-length gowns that shimmer like starlight with every step?
To have diamonds resting heavy and cool against my collarbone instead of worrying about the next electric bill or how many more shifts I need to pick up just to afford Charly's latest lead on Rachel?
To have enough money that I could hire the best private investigators in the world instead of scraping by with whatever scraps he collects on a budget?
My feminine side—the one I've kept locked down tight for years under grease, worry, and survival—stirs painfully.
God, I miss pretty things. I miss feeling like a girl instead of just a tired, desperate sister always chasing ghosts.
For one stupid, traitorous heartbeat, I let myself daydream: me in one of those dresses, laughing without looking over my shoulder, safe enough to actually live instead of just hunt.
Then reality crashes back in. These people aren't safe. They're just better at hiding the knives. I immediately hate all of them.
And then my eyes land on HIM. For a second, my brain refuses to process what my eyes are seeing.
No.
No freaking way.
What the hell is he doing here? Of all the people in the world. Of all the ballrooms in Vegas. Of all the nights. HIM.
My pulse stumbles. Not because I'm happy to see him.
Definitely not. Because Alessio Vitali—according to his business card—is the last person I ever expected to see again.
For eight months, he's existed in that strange category of people who don't quite feel real.
The kind you meet once and never forget.
The kind you think about when you should be thinking about literally anything else.
I still remember the first time I saw him. Standing beside that ridiculous Shelby on the side of a mountain road like he owned the world. Like nothing bad had ever happened to him. Like money fixed everything. Like people existed primarily to solve his problems. Arrogant. Annoying. Insufferable.
And, unfortunately, hot enough that I wouldn't have minded him fucking me right there on top of his car's hood.
God, the thought still makes my thighs clench.
That exact filthy scenario has had my little vibrator working overtime, the batteries burning out multiple times over the last eight months while I pictured him bending me over that sleek black hood, pinning me down with that big, powerful body, those crystal blue eyes locked on mine as he drove into me hard and deep.
No talking. No attitude. Just raw, angry, mind-melting sex until I couldn't even remember why I hated rich snobs like him.
I shove the memory down before it can heat my face.
Men like him should come with a warning label.
Dark hair. Crystal blue eyes. Shoulders broad enough to block out the sun.
The kind of face that belonged on magazine covers and police lineups at the same time.
Everything about him screamed danger, the expensive kind.
The kind wrapped in tailored suits and lethal confidence.
The kind that smiles while destroying your life.
Back then, I'd watched him watch me. He thought he was subtle.
He wasn't. I noticed every slow, hungry sweep of those blue eyes over my body.
Every lingering glance at my tits when I leaned over the engine.
Every second of raw male appreciation while I was covered in grease and pretending not to care.
The idiot probably thought I was too focused on the car to notice. I wasn't.
The truth was, I'd noticed him far more than I should have. A lot more. Which was exactly why I hadn’t driven the Shelby to Vegas myself.
I'd wanted to. The car was a goddamn masterpiece.
But the real reason sat seventy feet away in a dark suit right now.
Alessio Vitali. Casino owner. Businessman.
Mafia. Those had been the first search results when I Googled him.
The second search had been a call to Charly.
"Stay away from him," my PI said after digging.
"Why?"
"Because men like that don't end well."
Unfortunately, my own brain had reached the same conclusion.
Stay away. Don't get involved. Don't be stupid.
For once in my life, I'd listened. And now here he is anyway.
Across the ballroom. My stomach promptly forgets how to function.
Wonderful. I immediately turn the other way. Cowardly? Maybe. Smart? Definitely.
Because the last thing I need tonight is Alessio Vitali remembering who I am. Not that I truly believe there's any chance of that. Men like him don't remember nobodies like me.
The catering tray suddenly becomes fascinating. So does a nearby floral arrangement. And the chandelier. And literally anything that isn't six feet of dark-haired mafia boss standing fifty yards away. I make it almost three whole minutes before someone grabs my elbow.
"Beccs."
I turn and immediately relax. "Suzy."