The air in the Paradiso nightclub tasted of expensive bourbon and impending regret. Elena stood at the edge of the VIP lounge, her fingers white-knuckled around a silver tray. She wasn't supposed to be on this floor—the Gold Level was reserved for men who bought cities for breakfast—but her sister's medical bills didn't care about boundary lines.
"Don't look them in the eye," the floor manager had hissed. "Especially not the one in the center."
In the center sat Dante Moretti.
At twenty-eight, he was the youngest Capo the city had seen in decades. He didn't look like a thug; he looked like an aristocrat carved out of obsidian. He was draped in a charcoal suit that cost more than Elena's apartment, his dark hair swept back, eyes the color of a winter sea—beautiful, but capable of freezing anything they touched.
"The vintage, signorina," Dante's voice smooth, like velvet pulled over a blade.
Elena stepped forward, her heart drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs. As she leaned in to pour the $10,000 bottle of Amarone, the heavy bass of the club downstairs shifted. A tray-table wobbled.
A single, dark red drop splashed onto the cuff of Dante's pristine white shirt.
The silence that followed was deafening. The two bodyguards behind him shifted, their hands moving instinctively toward the leather holsters beneath their jackets.
"I... I am so sorry," Elena whispered, her voice trembling. She reached out with a linen napkin, acting before she could think.
Her fingers brushed his wrist.
The air seemed to ionize. Dante didn't flinch. Instead, he caught her hand in a grip of iron. His skin was searingly hot against her cold fingers. He looked down at the small stain, then up at her face. For a moment, his predatory gaze softened into something sharper, more focused.
"You're shaking," he noted. It wasn't a question.
"It's a very expensive shirt, sir."
Dante leaned in, the scent of sandalwood and ozone enveloping her.
"The shirt is nothing. But you? You're the daughter of Mikhail Sokolov, aren't you?"
Elena froze. Her father had been dead for five years—a gambler who disappeared leaving nothing but debts. "I don't know who that is."
Dante's lips curled into a ghost of a smile—cruel and devastatingly handsome. He stood up, towering over her, still holding her wrist. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear.
"Your father died owing my family a debt that blood couldn't even cover. I've been looking for his ghost for a long time." He pulled back just enough to look into her wide, amber eyes. "It seems I found his living image instead."
He let go of her hand and signaled to his men.
"Pack your things, Elena. You're finished serving drinks. From tonight, you're serving your father's sentence."