The Velvet Room wasn't just loud; it was deafening.
The bass reverberated against my chest, mimicking a second, frantic heartbeat.
We were perched in the VIP section, a dais raised above the main floor like a throne room, separated from the commoners by a velvet rope and two bodyguards the size of vending machines.
Dante occupied the center of the sprawling leather booth.
I sat beside him.
His arm was draped heavy over my shoulders-not an act of affection, but a territorial marker.
His Capo, Luca, sat across from us, flanked by a few other soldiers from the Fazio family.
They were knocking back scotch that cost more than most people's annual rent.
I wore a red dress.
It was tight, a second skin of silk.
It was armor.
I scanned the room, my gaze cutting through the strobe lights.
I saw her immediately.
Mia was working the floor, dressed in a skimpy waitress outfit that left little to the imagination.
She looked up at the VIP section, and her eyes didn't wander.
They locked instantly on Dante.
Then, slowly, they slid to me.
She smirked.
Instinctively, I touched the diamond ring on my finger.
In response, she touched the silver chain around her neck.
The ring wasn't on her hand, but I saw the distinct outline of a band pressing against the fabric of her shirt.
She was wearing it on a chain, close to her heart.
Dante signaled for a waitress.
Mia came over.
Of course she did.
She carried a tray of crystal glasses and a bottle of Blue Label, her hips swaying with a practiced rhythm.
She set the tray down on the table, her eyes lingering on Dante like a caress.
"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Fazio?" she asked.
Her voice was breathless, a performance for an audience of one.
"We're good," Dante said.
He sounded casual, dismissive even, but I felt the muscle in his arm tense around my shoulders.
Mia turned to leave.
As she spun around, her hip bumped the edge of the table.
The tray tipped.
Gravity took over.
The bottle of scotch shattered on the floor, sending shards of glass flying like shrapnel.
Amber liquid splashed onto Luca's pristine Italian loafers.
"Fuck!" Luca yelled.
He jumped up, his face twisting in rage.
"Watch it, you stupid bitch!"
The music seemed to cut out.
The VIP section went dead silent.
Mia gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.
"I'm so sorry! I slipped!"
Luca stepped forward, his hand raised high.
It was a reflex.
In our world, clumsiness was not tolerated; it was punished.
"Don't touch her!"
The shout came from beside me, primal and sharp.
Dante was on his feet before I could blink.
He moved with such speed that he knocked his own drink over, ignoring the spill.
He stepped between Luca and Mia, a human shield.
He shoved his own Capo back with a force that rattled the table.
"Back off, Luca," Dante snarled.
Luca looked confused, his hand freezing in mid-air.
