REBECCA #2
But every time that thought creeps in, guilt slams into me like a truck. Rachel. I'm so damn close. Working at the clubhouse is the best lead I've had in years. And here I am, letting myself get spoiled while my sister might be… God, I can't even finish the thought.
I push the guilt down and focus on the clothes.
Following LaModaDiCat's Pinterest style—that woman is a goddess with outfits. She’s married to a billionaire named Enrico Sartori and lives in New York—I put together a killer ensemble, a sleek black dress with a dangerous slit up the thigh, paired with a leather jacket that gives it just enough edge.
Even Madame Vivienne LaRoux goes quiet when she sees the final look, which feels like winning the lottery.
My phone buzzes on the side table.
Rich Spoiled Asshole:
Be ready at 5 sharp. I'll pick you up.
Me:
Pick me up for what?
Rich Spoiled Asshole:
Small party at one of the bars tonight. I need my girlfriend there with me.
I stare at the screen. What the actual fuck?
Me:
I'm not at your beck and call.
Rich Spoiled Asshole:
No, but you can't wait to take one of the new dresses out for a spin…
Damn him. He already knows me too well. I huff.
Me:
Fine. But just because I want to.
Rich Spoiled Asshole:
Good girl.
Goosebumps erupt across my skin. I don't reply. I can't. That man is dangerous in more ways than one. Time flies by in a blur of hairspray, makeup brushes, and compliments I don't know how to accept. The ladies are still fussing over last-minute details when the door opens.
Alessio steps inside. My breath catches. He's in a tailored black shirt and slacks, looking every inch the powerful, untouchable mafia prince. His eyes find me immediately and darken with obvious hunger as they rake over the dress, the hair, the makeup.
For a second, all my complicated feelings—guilt, annoyance, lingering pleasure from last night—tangle together into something warm and terrifying. And I know without a doubt that I'm in way over my head.
"You look stunning." Alessio's voice is low, far too rough and far too intimate for the room full of people. "I mean, you look beautiful anyway… but this…"
His hand moves like he can't quite stop himself, and his fingers brush lightly down my arm. Heat follows in their wake.
Madame Vivienne LaRoux croons from the side, clearly pleased with her work. "She's very delectable, non?"
Alessio ignores her completely. His eyes stay locked on me as he takes my hand, tugging gently. "Spin for me."
I'm too dazed by everything—the clothes, the hair, the makeup, the way he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth seeing—to offer any resistance.
I do a slow turn. When I face him again, his irises have darkened to that stormy blue that makes my stomach flip.
Whatever he sees in me seems to please him greatly.
He gently nudges the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. "Let's go."
In the lobby, several bodyguards are waiting. Four of them step into the private elevator with us. I notice Alessio keeps a careful distance from me inside the mirrored box, hands clasped in front of him like a perfect gentleman. I frown. What the hell is that about?
He catches the look and simply places his hand on my lower back again as the doors open, guiding me through the glittering jungle of the casino, slot machines dinging, drunken tourists laughing too loudly, blackjack and poker tables humming with tension and money.
We head up a short set of stairs and into the club.
The place reeks of money in the best way.
Tasteful, modern, and exclusive. Dark wood and smoked glass, strategic lighting that makes everything look expensive and intimate at the same time.
Leather booths, a long onyx bar, and a DJ booth tucked away so the music is rich and sensual without being overwhelming.
Beautiful people in designer clothes fill the space, laughter and clinking glasses creating that perfect high-society hum.
Alessio keeps his hand at my lower back the entire time, possessive and steady, as he guides me toward the back where a VIP area has been cleared off.
He introduces me smoothly.
"Senator McPatrick," he says, voice carrying that effortless authority. "This is my girlfriend, Beccs."
I'm genuinely impressed. I know McPatrick from the news, the sharp, ambitious senator who's been making waves lately.
He stepped into the spot Senator Kingsley vacated when he got arrested.
I don't follow the news much, but that was big enough even for me to take notice.
Mostly I felt sorry for his daughter Jenna.
Her father was imprisoned not long after her husband and son were abducted.
At least her son was able to be rescued, but her husband was killed.
Just a couple of weeks ago, she married the mafia don of Vegas. Quite the scandal.
McPatrick gives me a polished smile and a firm handshake, his eyes assessing me with interest. "Lovely to meet you, Beccs. I'm glad someone snagged that asshole, although I do feel sorry for you, lass."
He's got an Irish charm that he's been playing up for his political ambitions. The public eats it up. Even though everybody seems to overlook the fact that lass is Scottish, not Irish. It works for him.
I manage a smile, trying not to feel completely out of my depth in this world of power suits and old money.
I'm introduced to a few other men and women, sharp smiles, expensive watches, names that sound vaguely familiar from news clips or society pages. Politicians, businessmen, a couple of socialites dripping in diamonds. Then Alessio guides me toward a sleek section of the bar, and we take our seats.
I'm quietly amused. "Why come here if you're not going to mingle?"
He grins, and that slow, dangerous curve of his lips does unfair things to my pulse. "It's important to be seen, that's all. I don't like the Irish. They're trying to slither into our territory."
I blink, genuinely thrown. "Are you implying Senator McPatrick is Irish Mafia?"
He tilts his head and gives me a short, deliberate nod.
Wow.
The polished, ambitious senator who just shook my hand with that perfect, practiced smile…
is connected to the Irish mob? It throws me more than it probably should.
These people wear power like cologne, clean, expensive, and completely fake on the surface.
My world of Reapers and grease and scraping by suddenly feels almost honest by comparison.
At least the bikers don't pretend to be anything other than what they are.
Alessio's attention is everywhere except on me. He's scanning the room like a hunter, always calculating, always three steps ahead. I notice a stunning blonde across the way openly flirting with him, batting her lashes, sending heated looks over the rim of her martini glass.
Jealousy flares hot and ugly in my chest. The intensity of it shocks me. This is a fake relationship—at least outside the bedroom—I have no claim on him. And yet the idea of him with someone else makes my stomach twist painfully.
Suddenly Alessio's jaw clenches hard. His whole body goes rigid with lethal tension. "That asshole…" he growls under his breath, low and dangerous. "I’m gonna kill that bastard."
"Who? What?" I ask, startled. "McPatrick?"
"No." His eyes are locked somewhere over my shoulder. "That one over there. He's been undressing you with his eyes since we got here."
I follow his gaze. A handsome, sharply dressed man by the bar is watching me openly. He lifts his glass in my direction with a slow, cocky grin.
That's it. Alessio starts to move. I instinctively grab his arm, fingers digging into hard muscle.
"Stop. Wait."
He pauses, looking down at me with fire in his eyes, raw possession mixed with barely leashed violence stares back at me.
The tension between us crackles hotter than ever.
Jealousy. Anger. That dangerous, addictive pull that neither of us seems able to escape.
This fake relationship is already starting to feel far too real…
and far more complicated than I ever expected.