Chapter One

Celine

Chills chased over my flesh. I slid to the floor and leaned my back against my closed bedroom door. My sleeveless, black dress rode high on my thighs as I bent my knees to my chest. Black heels dug into the carpet, and my heart hammered as I held absolutely still with my phone in my trembling hand. I had the brightness on the screen turned low and the ringer on silent.

Shadows crawled like spiders across the walls of my bedroom. Shallow breaths gusted over my lips. The roar of blood through my ears made it hard to hear. A low vibrating hum tried to drown out the chaotic anxious and irrational thoughts ricocheting through my mind.

I hated this. I hated the flare of anxiety making my gut clench, and the wave of weakness crashing through me. I couldn't stand on my legs. Sweat beaded on my upper lip, dampened my armpits, and trickled along my spine.

Pink sneakers. Pink hoodie.I darted my gaze around the room. Please, I needed to see one more pink thing. I needed to control my thoughts. If I focused on little things, I could outrun the fear slipping like poison through my veins.

Pink sneakers. Pink hoodie. Pink sneakers. Pink hoodie.I had a pink perfume bottle in the bathroom. I had a pink bra in a drawer.

Nausea churned in my stomach. Every muscle in my body felt electrified to the point of pain like pinpricks of lightning striking everywhere at once.

I wiggled my toes, moved three body parts, and tried to find three pink items. I could make three sounds. Tears built in my eyes as I was paralyzed with fear. I couldn't even whisper a word.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the door.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He was coming. My heart was going to explode from the pounding. Too hard. Too fast. Did he want me dead? With every ragged breath, I wanted to die. No, I didn't want to die. Not tonight. I promise, I didn't.

Pink sneakers. Pink hoodie.Dear, God, help me breathe.

My fingers were numb. I was pathetic. I prayed, I argued in my head, and I made deals with myself and with God.

My father was just outside my bedroom door. I could hear him finishing a phone call on his cell. He wouldn't hurt me. I was a good girl. In his eyes I needed to stay a little girl…until I could run.

My father, Charles Moreau, was the district attorney. He dedicated his life to punishing the bad guys.

But I knew the truth, and he had the power to keep me quiet. He was evil. I hated him more than I'd ever loved him.

As a little girl, I'd believed his lies. I wasn't just his daughter. I was the daughter of a murdered mother. I was the broken teenager with panic attacks when I was alone in my room, and because I was afraid of people, being alone was the only safe place for me to be.

I spent as much time as I could alone in my studio. Mostly, I painted, but not people or landscapes. My professor said I created chaos with color. It wasn't so much that you could see anything in the angry, broken, or sometimes soft swipes of my brush, but he said he could feel the emotion behind the strokes.

My father claimed I painted like a toddler. My education had to include more than art history and color theory. With a minor in psychology, I figured I could label all my mental conditions without the help of Google.

Anxiety was intoxicating, made me irrational, and gave my father another weapon.

Any moment, he'd open my door. But unlike when I was a child and believed if I closed my eyes he wouldn't see me, I knew not even the darkness of my room could hide me.

I covered my ears, hoping I wouldn't hear his conversation. I didn't want to know anything else about him. I knew enough.

My fingertips touched the sharp cuts of my earrings. I gasped a breath. Pink diamonds. Pink sneakers. Pink hoodie. Pink earrings. A rush of relief surged through me. I pinched the stone between my fingers and slipped it from my ear. I held it in my palm as I stood from the floor.

He knocked once and the handle clicked. I drew in a deep breath, feeling my pulse slow. The door opened, and he was cast in silhouette with the hallway light behind him.

I turned my back on my dad. My tears gave him power. My fear made him drunk. I wasn't one to play victim, but my father was the reason for all my issues.

And he had total control of my life. But I had a plan and an insurance policy of sorts. I'd learned my first life lesson from my father. Never bluff when it comes to extortion. If you had a weapon, you should use it.

If I could survive to my twenty-first birthday in fourteen months and thirteen days, I'd have access to my trust. He held me hostage because he had power over the one thing I refused to let him take from my mother. It wasn't a great sum of money, but it represented everything I'd ever coveted. Enough money to run far from here. Enough money to hide.

"I just need to put on my earrings," I stammered as I rushed into my en suite bathroom. I quickly leaned into the mirror and checked my makeup.

"It's fifteen after. I asked you to be ready by six."

Yes, but I was ready by five-thirty. Thirty minutes too early. Too many minutes to simmer in my toxic thoughts. Too long to fight my triggers. Once I was spiraling, it was a fast fall. Better that it happened now in my room. If he knew I'd had another panic attack, he'd call Dr. Steiner, and they'd put me back on the pills.

Not happening. Everything in my medical records gave him power over me. Not that he couldn't pull strings and have my mental health questioned. Dr. Steiner wasn't treating me. He was doing a favor for my father. And favors were debts. Debts had to be repaid.

But I'd be free in fourteen months and thirteen days. Counting down the days was another tool that helped control my anxiety.

I tucked my hair behind my ear and slipped the earring back into the lobe. I wondered if my dad hated me because I looked like her. Maybe not exactly like her. I had to have some of him, too. My blonde hair was the same as hers, and I had her small frame.

Our similarities ended there. She'd been beautiful with chocolate brown eyes and cupid bow lips. My blue eyes were a bit too wide, but they matched my mouth. I slicked my full lips with pink gloss and smooshed them together. If I smiled, I showed too many teeth. At least they were straight, and my nose didn't distract from my face.

I wanted to look average and blend in because even in the middle of a crowded room, I wished I could disappear. I was scared to be noticed by anyone associated with my dad.

I stared past my reflection in the mirror. My father leaned against the open doorway into my bathroom, watching me.

He appeared every bit the established high-powered attorney. He and my mother had looked beautiful together. Her blonde tresses had contrasted with his nearly black hair.

Now, he had a touch of gray at the temples. He'd shaved. I remember loving the smell of his cologne, but now, the expensive fragrance burned my nostrils and reminded me that something could smell good but still be festering and rotten on the inside.

"I'm ready."

He straightened and tugged on the cuffs of his Armani tuxedo. "Do I need to remind you how important tonight is for me?"

I shook my head. He stepped to the side so I could walk past him. He banded his fingers around my wrist. His gaze slid down my body. The black sleeveless dress hugged my curves like a second skin and draped to an asymmetrical cut just below my knees, the point of the sleek fabric reaching to my calf. The dress a woman bent on seduction would wear.

A dress he'd chosen.

"You look nice, Angel. I knew you'd be stunning in black."

I smiled even though I hated when he called me Angel. "Thanks, Dad." It wasn't spoken as an endearment of affection but as a symbol of manipulation. He'd demand something from me, something that inevitably would trigger anxiety.

If he called me Angel, he expected me to play his games.

I should have felt relieved that I was his daughter, but I didn't. I never wanted him to see me as a teenage girl ever again. I knew my father's secrets. Secrets worth killing for. But I feared what it would mean if he saw me as anything different. In this dress, I didn't look innocent.

"The black polish is unflattering to you. Your nails should be red." The criticisms always followed a compliment.

I tucked my phone into my small clutch, slipped on a half jacket, and followed my dad down the marble stairs.

"You don't need the jacket."

I clutched it closed. "It might be chilly in the convention center."

But not nearly as cold as the house felt with only the echo of my heels and the click of his wingtips. The kitchen was quiet because Marie had already gone home for the night. She'd been my mom's help for the house. She did the cleaning and cooking before my mother died, and after she took on more roles.

Pretty sure one of those roles was sleeping with my father. At least she didn't live with us. I guess if there were people I didn't hate to be around, she'd come close to getting on the list.

She tried. I tried. It was what it was. I didn't want a mom, and she didn't know how to not mother me. I told time from her predictable schedule. Breakfast was on the table at eight, lunch with her daytime talk show at one, and dinner waited on the table at six. Except tonight, since I had the pleasure of attending the City Gala.

My life wasn't completely horrible. I had my painting and my best friend, Presley. Although I didn't think I was her best friend. As reclusive as I was, she was outgoing. She had an entourage of followers. And I hated being in cliques and groupings.

We met in high school biology class during our sophomore year. It boiled down to frogs and their reproductive system. While I dissected, she kissed. It worked out for her. She'd lost her virginity to her Prince Charming boyfriend, and I got an A in the class.

Now, she was Eminence University royalty. Although she also hung out with the football team, she wasn't a jersey chaser. Most of the jersey's chased her.

Tall, athletic, popular. A super social butterfly, but for some reason, she liked me—even with my social dysfunction. Even when I bailed on her when my insecurities took over.

I flipped open my purse. Pink gloss, pink phone case, and a pink pen.

A slow exhale ghosted past my lips, and with it, the last bit of tension. One night, one dinner, one conversation at a time. I'd sneak three drinks and take three sips at a time. I counted the small things. Another coping mechanism for life.

I slid into the passenger seat of my dad's BMW M2, careful to keep the slit in my dress from gaping too wide.

"I need you, Angel." He focused on the road, but his fingers gripped hard to the steering wheel. "I've had a couple of setbacks. You know the game." He cast a quick glance at me. "Half of my job is delivering convictions for the people. But the other half is political."

He navigated through town, speaking but not really looking at me.

"I want you to spend some time chatting with the mayor and to Chief Williams."

I held my clutch tightly in my fingers. "Maybe you should've brought a date." I spoke softly because he was already driving aggressively, and I didn't want to piss him off more. But you'd think he'd get a clue about me. "I'm not good at socializing."

"I need you to pull your shit together, Celine. Smile, engage, open your mouth, and talk to them." His lips formed a tight line as he tossed a prescription bottle of pills at me. "Take one of those."

I lifted the bottle and read the label. Diazepam. The prescription was in my name. Dr. Steiner's name was on the bottle. They wanted me to take Valium. Opening the bottle, I slipped one of the small pills into my hand.

"Fine." Arguing wouldn't make a difference. And neither would whining. I hated him for pushing me into uncomfortable situations. "I'll take it when we get there. I don't want to take it on an empty stomach and get sick."

He pulled around the front of the convention center. Valets in red, tux jackets and black trousers took the keys from pompous assholes just like my father. Ladies in designer dresses and draped in jewels curled their gloved fingers around offered elbows.

Curved stone steps led to the glass entrance. Inside, was complete red-carpet opulence. Huge urns of white hydrangeas banked the entrance to the main room. Black tablecloths draped circular tables. White lights twinkled in the artificial topiary throughout the hallways.

"You're fidgeting," my dad admonished, covering my hand where it rested in the crook of his elbow. "Do you want to check your jacket and purse?"

Pink gloss, pink phone case, and a pink pen. "I'm good."

"Moreau."

My dad squeezed my hand and turned to the man who spoke behind us. "Williams. Good to see you. You remember my daughter, Celine."

I smiled and forced my voice to sound confident, but I mingled with sharks. Men like my father sniffed out the weaknesses of others. Feeling like prey, the hair on the back of my neck prickled with unease. No matter how they smiled, I could feel the sharpness of their teeth. "Nice to see you again."

Not really. I'd heard my dad ranting enough to know they didn't get along, but just because he was an enemy of my father's, didn't mean he was one of the good guys. Good guys only existed in the movies and fairytales.

As I entered the convention hall, a white-gloved attendant handed me a program for the evening. In addition to the dinner and awards, there was a silent auction with items donated by local businesses. The brochure listed the items that would be up for bidding.

"You'll need to do better than five words," my father hissed under his breath.

"What is it exactly that you need me to do or say?" It wasn't like I had anything in common with anyone here.

A three-piece ensemble played soft music in the corner. People mingled. A few boisterous laughs erupted across the room.

"I need to find a colleague. I want you to meet him. He'll be at our table tonight."

Right, because he was one of the sharks.

"Don't wander away."

"I won't." I took a step back from him.

"Listen, all you have to do is introduce yourself as my daughter. Find ways to bring up the work we've done."

My face must have reflected my confusion. We hadn't done any work. He didn't talk about his cases or those of his assistant district attorneys. And he certainly didn't know I could hear his conversations in his office through the vent in my bedroom. Things I wish I'd never heard.

"Jesus Christ, Celine. Talk your dad up and take off the jacket. You look like a teenager."

I arched a brow. "I am a teenager." Did he forget my age? I was almost twenty, but nineteen was still a teenager.

"You're over eighteen. That makes you an adult in the eyes of the law."

But not in his eyes since he was the executor over my trust and the final decision on when I received it. I guess he had taught me well to pick my battles, and I was fourteen months and thirteen days from the end of our war.

He leaned close to me. "I know this is hard on you. It's important that I keep the support of the mayor and the chief of police. Take the pill because I need you to keep your anxiety locked down."

The words settled warmly in my chest. "Yes, I can mingle."

"Fuck. Finally." He tugged on his tux jacket. "I'm going to get a drink."

I opened my clutch, stuffed the program inside, and counted my three pink items, then I turned, smiled, and looked for the chief of police. I'd start with him since he was behind us a moment ago.

People lingered along the west wall of the convention hall. Each small square table contained an item up for auction. I worked my way in that direction. Well, that and the open bar, not that it was actually free. Between the auction and the dinner, the gala masqueraded as a fundraiser, but really there would be a lot of wrist sprains from handshakes and back patting.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and appetizers filled buffet tables along the south wall. Cocktail hour was in full swing. Spying my father across the room engaged in a conversation, I risked slipping into the line at the bar.

Tonight, I was over twenty-one.

"Strawberry mojito," I said to the bartender. Even if he wondered about my age, he didn't say anything as I fished through my clutch for a tip and added another twenty to the bills swimming in the jar at the end of the bar.

Once I had my cocktail, I sidled around the perimeter of the room. Other than Chief Williams, I didn't recognize anyone, and no one seemed particularly interested in speaking with me.

Good. But I needed to make sure my dad saw me engaged. Apprehension slithered through my mind. Self-doubts. I wasn't good at making casual conversation. I'd rather be alone in my studio with my paints and a canvas.

People surrounded Chief Williams. Too many people for me to feel comfortable. My father had a few good qualities I could speak about, but I didn't think his hygiene habits or his obsession with flossing were going to be highlights of conversation. Other than those, he had no redeeming qualities.

I really had no idea what to say to these people.

I skimmed the room looking for the mayor. His picture hung outside my dad's office, so you'd think I'd recognize him.

Most men laughed or talked business. Women tilted their heads and smiled. I painted, but these women mastered the art of elegance. They sparkled like the diamonds glittering in their ears.

My heart stuttered. That particular feeling when you knew you were being watched made the hair at the back of my neck tingle. I found the source, only I wasn't the one being stalked.

A man stared across the room with his gaze locked on my father. It wasn't as if he even tried to hide the callousness in his penetrating glare. My fingers absently went to my throat as I tried to take a breath.

God, he was too beautiful. It was like I'd tuned into a commercial for expensive whiskey. Black tux, black tie, and a black shirt. He was older than me, but not by much. Maybe twenty-five. Dark lashes framed his eyes. I couldn't see what color they were from this far away. He slid his hand into the pocket of his fitted trousers. Maybe the commercial could be one of those sexy cologne ads.

My mind immediately nosedived into the gutter. It probably sounded cliché, but seriously, I had never felt this warm from staring at a guy. I didn't imagine hot men naked or surmise the size and thickness of their dicks. That was a lie. Sometimes, I did, but not actual guys standing in the same room as me. Who hadn't imagined Henry Cavill naked?

I could never picture myself as the slutty temptress out for seduction. I wore hoodies and jeans and sucked on hard, ginger candies.

My eyes widened as I stared at him. Even if I wanted to turn away from him, I couldn't because I couldn't stop imagining how it would feel to have him look at me, only with lust instead of the loathing he directed at my father. He was tall and thick. Muscles and mayhem.

I imagined him towering over me, stripped out of his clothes with his cock in his hand because he'd demanded I get on my knees. I swallowed the extra spit in my mouth.

I was freaking salivating.

And how could I be sweating and still have goosebumps chasing over my flesh? I tipped my glass and drank the rest of my cocktail. The alcohol scorched my throat and flared through my chest.

His gaze scanned the room, pausing on me. The corner of his mouth quirked in a devilish tilt. A flutter swirled in my belly, then seeped lower. I braced a hand to my pelvis. I think my ovaries just melted.

A group gathered in front of me. I was getting warmer so I tugged off my jacket, and shifted to where I could see him again.

Light glinted off his dark hair as he raked his fingers through his bangs. His hair didn't have a style. It swirled around his head with soft curls and brushed against the collar of his tailored tux. Intentionally messy but totally hot. He was fit as hell with a quiet intensity.

He didn't come off as the political type. He wasn't schmoozing the crowd or casing the guests for those who could make a sizeable donation to his campaign. Nor was he kissing ass. I'd guess him to be some tech giant or crypto currency guru except that he wasn't arrogantly flashing his success and bragging about his accomplishments.

Like me, he was alone.

Even in the brightly lit room, shadows seemed to cut across the hard angles of his face. Full lips didn't smile but slightly parted as he tipped his glass and finished his drink. A cube of ice tumbled into his mouth. As he crunched the cube, his jaw flexed and moved.

He reminded me of a panther in the jungle. Alone, predatory, and deadly. As if stalking his prey, his focus was on my father, his gaze unwavering. I'd never seen him before. I'd remember the cruel intensity in his eyes.

I cautiously made my way to the coat check. Why did I even feel nervous? Except that he was stunningly provocative and somehow, he was connected to my father.

That made him dangerous.

I continued to check over my shoulder while I waited in line at the coat check.

"Thank you," I said, once she took the jacket from my hands.

I gripped my clutch and shifted closer to the stranger.

My breath held when he set his empty glass on a table. He didn't just walk across the room. He commanded the attention of those around him as he moved with confidence to intercept my father.

My steps were hesitant. Next to my father, the man's shoulders seemed broader, his arms stronger, and his expression more sinister. I wasn't close enough to hear the conversation, but my father's posture stiffened.

Tension coiled in my gut. I wanted to get closer. I controlled my breaths and tightened my fingers on my clutch.

"You don't want to make an enemy out of me," he said.

The deep gravelly tone with his thick Italian accent did wicked things to me. It was like my body belonged to someone else because this wasn't anxiety, but arousal. I should have kept my jacket on to cover my breasts and the embarrassing display of nipple poking through my dress.

"Are you threatening me?" My father's voice wasn't nearly as controlled. Although he didn't cower easily either.

"I'm simply pointing out that we have a situation that needs to be addressed. I'm offering you a way to rectify the issue before it becomes complicated."

My father dusted an invisible spec of lint from his jacket sleeve. "I'm not interested in negotiating with you."

The man took a step closer to my dad. "I like to keep things simple. I don't negotiate."

"You're outside your purview, Bruno."

Bruno. I'd heard the name just a couple of days ago through the vent in my room. I'd written it down in my insurance policy, a notebook with the names I'd heard from my father's lips. His enemies and his accomplices. Since it was my only weapon, I was biding my time. When I ran, I'd leave with the names and dates of his crimes.

My father's office was directly below my second-floor bedroom. In a big house he probably assumed he was insulated from having his secrets overheard. But sound travelled. And the heating and air conditioning ducts were a conduit for his deviousness.

The man must have crossed my father. He didn't bring his legitimate, legal work to his home office. The men who met with my father at home were the reason I carried pink lip gloss, my pink phone, and a pink pen.

"I work for the people of my city," my dad continued. "My responsibility is to them."

"And we both know you don't have shit on Caruso. Byrne has you on his payroll, but he can't protect you when he's not in control of his own organization."

My father lowered his voice. "Byrne was always expendable. Just ask his brother. He's here tonight."

The stranger's focus shifted from my father to the people around them. Then his attention centered on me.

Those piercing eyes were the color of whiskey and narrowed with a savage intensity. I swallowed, needing a bit of saliva to moisten my dry mouth.

My father jerked his head around. I took a step forward just so that I could be closer to the stranger. His nearness made me breathless, and inside, I trembled.

Yet I shivered from the smoldering heat in his eyes.

A brazen tilt lifted the corner of the man's full lips. "Beautiful. Is she legal? Is she for you or Byrne?"

My father glared at the man and rested his hand on my shoulder. I tried not to flinch from the cold touch of his fingertips. But the heat in the stranger's eyes chased the chill caused by my father's hand.

"Can you give us a moment?" He spoke to me, but his glaring eyes never left the probing depth of the stranger's glower.

"I'm going to go over to the auction tables," I said and lifted my gaze to the man one more time, memorizing the small scar in the arch of his brow, the fall of his dark hair across his forehead, and the soft fullness of his lips.

I felt his penetrating stare burning through me as I walked away.

"She's a little old for you."

"Careful, Bruno. That's my daughter."

I wanted to linger, to hear what the stranger would say to my father, instead I balanced on my heels and strode across the room.

But then I had to look over my shoulder once more. His gaze drilled into mine. For the beat of my heart, we stared at each other. My father followed his line of sight. Whatever he said made the stranger smile. A slow, deviant curl to his lips that had my belly doing a flip.

I felt like I was running away. The daring glint in his eyes told me maybe I should. I spun and hurried to the auction items. I stumbled in my steps. I'd just been hit again.

To the left of filled tables, a painting hung on the wall. My heart stuttered, and my throat began to swell. Oh god, he wouldn't. My feet felt weighted as I approached the abstract painting. The closer I came to the painting, the more my panic took hold. Blood rushed through my head. The tile beneath the canvas read.

Beauty in Winter.

Tears burned in my eyes. What did Beauty in Winter even mean? This wasn't beauty. I called it Emancipator. Angry lines like lightning cut through blocks of red, gray, and black. The painting was wild and chaotic. Light breaking through the darkness, fighting to be free.

This was me. My chest tightened as I set my drink on the table. I snapped open my clutch. Pink lip gloss, pink phone, and a pink pen. And the program. I jerked it out of my purse. My hands shook as I flipped through the pages. Airline tickets, a cruise, gift baskets, and gift certificates. And there it was.

Beauty in Winter

Artist: Celine Moreau

Donated by: District Attorney Charles Moreau

He donated my painting. I pressed my trembling fingertips to my lips. Why hadn't I noticed it missing from my studio? None of my paintings hung in the house. Not one because he claimed I needed to refocus whatever talent I thought I possessed and pursue something with purpose. Like being a criminal in an Armani tux while claiming to be a servant to the law.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit something or someone. I wanted to tear my painting from the wall. I'd rather shred it into brutal confetti than let him pretend to care about anything but himself. He hated my paintings as much as I hated him.

I tried to take a breath. My hand dropped to my chest as I rushed from the room, down the corridor, and into the ladies' restroom.

Breathe. Don't puke. Don't panic!I couldn't have another episode. Not here. I could fix this. I wet a paper towel and pressed it to my cheeks. I took deep breaths. One, two, three, four. I continued counting the tiles on the floor until I'd curbed the panic, but the murderous rage toward my father brewed deep in my gut. I burned with hate.

I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to take something he cherished. Too bad the only thing he cared about was himself.

I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to go home. "I hate this," I whispered. I released a steadying exhale and waited for the red splotches to fade from my face before returning to the auction tables.

Once back in the room, I glanced down at the tablet for my painting. The bid was currently three hundred and seventy-five dollars. Minimum increases were set at twenty-five dollars. I peered over my shoulder at my father, then I turned back to my painting. What was it worth to me?

Emancipatorrepresented my freedom. I bled for my painting, letting my pain seep from my fingertips as I held a brush. I fisted my hands at my side. Emancipator was mine. He stole it, but he'd never admit to being wrong in doing so. He'd never agree to bid on it.

If I had access to my trust, I would bid ten thousand dollars. If I had my trust, I wouldn't even be at this stupid gala trying to schmooze his revolting associates. I'd be long gone, away from my dad and the dirty world he lived in.

The painting was mine. I couldn't lose to a higher bid. With a silent prayer, and shaking fingers, I entered a bid of a thousand dollars. It would wipe out my savings but save my soul.

Professor Kyte might see brilliance in my work, but he wasn't here. I couldn't imagine anyone else here would be a collector of an unknown local artist who, according to my father, painted like a toddler.

I stared at the back of his head as he stood in a small cluster of people. A dagger of pain knifed through my chest because he'd violated my space and taken something that held meaning for me.

I smoothed my hands over my hips and made my way to our table. Dinner was about to be awkward. I'd need that pill for when the winning bids were announced.

Now where did I put my cocktail?

Stefano

The only time I'd met Elise Jilani was when Marco had married her daughter. I never planned to know her as anything more than Marco's mother-in-law and, if she wanted to sleep at night without nightmares, she would stay the fuck away from me. That shouldn't be a problem. Any Jilani domestic issues were Marco's responsibility.

This was business. From don Jilani's perspective, our families had more than formed an alliance. They'd merged into a single focused force.

In truth, Marco had taken over. He fed Santi's ego enough to keep him hungry. Marco had me to make sure power remained with him. Not that Santi would be brave enough to put up a fight for his father's seat at the family table. Family as in mafia.

I scanned the crowd. I hated this shit. I wasn't social. I'd rather lurk in the shadows, stalk my enemies, and gut them with a knife.

Tonight, I needed to be seen, and Elise had come through brilliantly. Not only had she made sure I was listed as VIP on the guest list, but she'd secured my seat at the district attorney's table for dinner. Apparently at the displeasure of the person who'd been relocated to another table. Fuck them. It's time the name Bruno was feared as much as it was respected.

Elise had spared me a few minutes when I'd arrived at the gala, but since then I'd only caught glimpses of her as she'd flitted amongst the guests. Clearly, the understanding was there. As far as she knew, I was here for a single purpose. Now, I had another target. Ian Byrne.

I needed my banker. Moreau was fucking with my plans. Arresting Dante had been a powerplay by Moreau, but a stupid decision. Dante was loyal and too good to make mistakes.

I could only assume the district attorney was fucking with my business to keep attention off his issues with the Irish. Moreau had a problem. Me.

I'd wanted to intimidate him, insinuate a deadly retribution if he didn't drop the charges on Dante. But Elise had gifted me an even better motivator. The beautiful young daughter of the DA sat in the chair next to me, and her father sat across the table from us.

He didn't seem pleased with my proximity to his daughter. Perhaps I could use his irritation to my advantage.

I wouldn't admit to my flare of interest because she was too young, although I'd guess not by much, and the daughter of the man precariously close to getting on my bad side. But my gut clenched, and a steady pump of blood was coursing through my veins, straight into my dick.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my gaze roam over the soft contours of her bare shoulders. Her dress hugged her small breasts and accentuated the tuck of her tiny waist and narrow hips.

In the bright light from the chandeliers, her halo of blonde hair appeared nearly white. Soft, silky, the perfect length to wrap around my fist. I drew in a deep inhale. She smelled like innocence. Something subtle and clean, like wildflowers and temptation.

Feeling my stare, she quickly glanced in my direction, and then she focused anywhere but on me. A smile tugged at my mouth. Maybe I made her nervous. No way she hadn't heard at least part of the conversation I'd had with her father.

My arm brushed against hers as I draped a white cloth napkin over my lap. She stiffened in her chair, her spine becoming rigid as she kept her eyes straight ahead. And she gripped her napkin with a tight fist in her lap.

She seemed to be in a conversation with herself as she shook her head, glared across the table, then took another swig of her drink.

"Are we going to ignore each other?" I asked.

Everything about her was quiet and unassuming. Maybe everything except the black nail polish giving her a little bit of an edge. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

A small pink diamond earring caught the light. The slit in her dress gaped as she shifted on her chair and crossed her legs. She slightly angled her body toward mine. "I'm not ignoring you."

"We could get the introductions out of the way." I extended my hand. "Stefano Bruno."

Her small hand slid into mine. Her skin was whisper soft, and her fingers long and thin. The fleeting touch was warm, gentle, and didn't last long enough. Even as her hand slipped from mine, a sizzle of heat teased the hairs on my flesh and traveled up my arm. I curled my fingers into a fist trying to hold the sensation for a moment longer.

I shouldn't be thinking about anything except how I could use her to motivate her father. At the moment, I was more interested in the taste of her lips, the flutter of her pulse, and how my hand would look wrapped around her neck as she breathed my name.

Not much in my life was soft, and there was nothing innocent about me. I didn't know her, but I didn't have to in order to know she was too good for me. But that was the thing about me, about darkness. It endlessly chased the light, eventually snuffing it out.

"Celine Moreau."

"Your father is the district attorney?"

She nodded without turning in my direction. Another long minute of silence passed between us.

"Do you know a lot of people here?"

Again, she shook her head.

I took a sip of my drink. Maybe her father had warned her not to talk to me. He glared from across the table. I leaned into her. "If you could be anywhere besides here, where would you want to go?"

She turned to me and a flicker of something shadowed her eyes, but she quickly blinked and diverted her gaze again. "Somewhere I could be alone."

The words might have iced me out if they weren't spoken so quietly. And if I hadn't already felt the heat in her stare.

"Did I do something to piss you off?" Because I'd definitely felt a different vibe off her before she'd approached her father.

I'd sensed her gaze on me from across the room. But sitting next to me, she was quiet and shy. Yet, her pulse quivered in the delicate stretch of her neck. Her shallow breaths lifted her chest. Her breasts were small, petite, and tempting just like the rest of her.

She turned at my words and released a heavy exhale. "I'm not pissed at you. I don't even know you."

I lifted my drink. "Do you want to?"

"Not particularly. Just like I don't particularly want to be here."

I shrugged. "Leave. I'll walk out with you. I'd rather have a burger and beer."

"I can't. Not yet," she said under her breath. Maybe she wasn't as quiet and demur as I'd first assumed. The girl was grinding her teeth and spoiling for a fight. "I hate you," she whispered.

I leaned back in my chair. "Most people know me, or at least know about me, before they hate me, but since I seem to piss off most people, I'm okay with skipping to the end. If you already hate me, there's no reason to pretend to be charming."

She dipped her head. "I wasn't speaking to you."

I lowered my voice. "Unless you're hearing voices, I appear to be the only one speaking to you."

Her eyes searched mine. "I'm not very good at conversations."

"You seem to be having an interesting conversation with yourself."

"I guess I'm used to talking to myself."

"Tonight, you have me. Who do you hate?"

She opened her clutch, then snapped it closed. "Have you ever been so angry with someone, you seriously want to kill them?"

I paused with my drink near my mouth and cocked a brow. "On occasion." I took the sip, set the tumbler down, and trailed my fingertip through the sweat on the glass. "But you shouldn't kill your enemy while you're pissed. You give the person power over you when you show weakness. Anger is weakness." I waited until she met my gaze. "What you want is revenge."

"What I want is to take my knife and stab him in the heart." Her voice hardened. "I'd twist it and ask him if it hurts."

I smiled. Now she was talking my love language.

She huffed. "But it won't hurt because he doesn't have a heart. Maybe I'd stab him in the back because that's exactly what he did to me."

"Boyfriend problems?" I asked.

"No."

Conversations quieted as a gentleman approached a podium at the front of the room. "Thank you for attending tonight's City Gala. While you enjoy dinner, we will be recognizing your outstanding accomplishments." The crowd applauded. "The bar is open, and the auction closes immediately after dessert is served. We'll make a final call for bids. Be generous. All the proceeds go to local charities."

I tuned out the rest of his announcements as dozens of servers swarmed into the room with the first course. Twelve guests were seated around large, round tables covered with black tablecloths. I ignored the woman on my right and focused on Celine Moreau.

"Who pissed you off?" I asked as I took a bite of salad.

Her eyes glazed with unshed tears. "My father."

I stared at the man across the table. He was doing his best to stay engaged in the conversation around him, but he was too fixated on me as I chatted with his daughter.

I smiled and leaned closer to her. "Your dad's a dick."

She softly laughed. "Shh, he'll hear you."

The first real smile tilted her glossed lips. Fuck me. I couldn't wrench my gaze from hers. The room faded away until she was all I could see. Her blonde hair draped over her shoulder. A heaviness of sexual tension thickened between us.

Those unshed tears sparked like Bruno diamonds. She was all wide eyes, so blue it was like looking into the deepest ocean and a sinful fucking mouth. A mouth made for kissing. Lips I wanted around my dick as she stared up at me with tear filled eyes.

She had the face and voice of an angel. Too pure and innocent for a man like me who bathed in blood and feasted on sin.

"Sei Bellissima. You're beautiful."

A blush tinted her cheeks, and she dipped her head. For a few unsteady beats of my heart, we didn't speak.

"I'm…I…" She inhaled deeply.

Maybe I'd spent too much time with Allegra. My brother's wife was a badass mafia bride who played with knives instead of friends by the time she was a teenager. But she was always a lady, accepting compliments, and able to disarm even the hardest mafia capos with a subtle smile.

Until her husband lost his shit and turned caveman with his jealousy.

But my point was that this girl was stuttering for a way to reply. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Why? Are you taking it back?" She tore off a piece of her dinner roll and slipped it between those lips. Her mouth whispered wicked promises without speaking a word.

"No, because that would make me a liar. But I've made you uncomfortable, and I want you to keep talking to me." I stabbed a forkful of salad. "Tell me, what did your dad do to piss you off?"

"I'm not going to stop talking to you, but you don't need to try and make conversation with compliments. They do make me uncomfortable. But I don't want to talk about my dad. For one, you clearly have something going on with him. And two, I hope I've already fixed the problem." She stared across the room to the auction. When she turned back to me, she asked, "What did he do to piss you off?"

I rolled a cherry tomato around on my plate. "What makes you think I'm pissed off?"

"Because my dad is a dick. I walked up to an uncomfortable conversation between the two of you." She seemed to relax into our conversation as she ate her salad.

"Maybe he just doesn't like the way I look at his daughter."

Her eyes widened. Her gaze flitted to her father, and then she refocused on me. "Or maybe he didn't like the way I was looking at you."

"Were you looking at me?" I teased and popped a crouton into my mouth.

A blush crawled up her neck.

"I think we both noticed each other," I said.

"We're the youngest people in the room." A smile curled her lips. "Did you really think I was here as his date?"

I chuckled and shrugged. "You're young and beautiful. He's successful."

"I'm nineteen. He's forty-six."

"You're both adults."

The smile fell from her face again, and she pointed at me with her fork. "Only in the eyes of the law and when it's convenient. And when your dad is controlling."

"Yeah, that's the thing with parents," I said. "You're always going to be his little girl."

She took a small bite of salad and licked a drop of dressing from her lip. I turned away from her tantalizing mouth before I leaned in to lick the shine from her lips.

"Are you your momma's little boy?" she asked.

I had been, and then my foundation crumbled. "My mom died when I was ten."

I remembered the highlights like Christmases and birthdays, but sometimes it seemed like my only memories were the moments captured in pictures. Why couldn't I remember her tucking me into bed and kissing me goodnight or the sound of her voice when she'd sing along to her favorite songs?

I couldn't remember shit because we didn't talk about her. We weren't allowed to speak her name. Marco had once told me my papà hadn't known how to grieve. I'd believed him until Luca was murdered.

Then I understood. With Luca, he'd had an enemy to find and punish. With my mother, there'd only been God to blame. He died before discovering those closest to him had betrayed him. That Luca wasn't dead. I'd collect on that debt.

I startled with Celine's touch.

"I'm sorry." She covered my hand with hers. "I was ten, too, when my mom was…when she died."

A silent moment passed between us, a shared sadness only we could understand. I stared at our hands. Dark to light. She was flawless, pale skin, and I had deadly hands darkened by blood and violence.

I lifted my head and met the furious gaze of her father, and I remembered my purpose for being here. Knowing she'd see me as a monster if she ever knew the truth about me burned like acid.

She'd lost her mother. And eventually I'd end up taking her father.

"Stefano?"

My name on her lips sent a shiver over my flesh. One day she'd whisper it as a curse, but tonight she leaned in and spoke intimately to me.

"Tell me something about your mother," she said.

"Ah, mia madre. My mom was Italian, of course, and she loved to draw."

Her smile softened. "Your mom was an artist?"

"Sì, but she had five babies and a demanding husband. It was hard on my papà when she died. She was devoted to her family. I have two older brothers, but my youngest is always going to be the baby. When we were getting into trouble as boys, my sister, Anna, was always there to intervene. She had a way with my father."

"I used to wish I had brothers and sisters." She focused on the man across the table. "But I wouldn't wish him on my enemy."

I leaned back in my chair as servers collected salad plates and dinner entrees were served. People spoke from the podium, but I ignored everyone except the woman next to me as we ate dinner. She talked about school. We compared bands we liked, books we'd read, and movies that never should have been made.

Throughout the conversation, I relished the hardened glare of her father. I hadn't forgotten why I'd come tonight, and I hadn't forgotten who she was. "Tell me what he did to you."

Give me another reason to kill him.

"He took something of mine. Something he had no right to."

A deep simmering storm, hot and deadly like lava, built in my belly, radiated out, obliterating everything and everyone but the beautiful girl next to me. Shy, innocent, na?ve.

What the fuck had he taken from her? No doubt I'd make his death brutally painful. Heat climbed into my chest. Charles Moreau enjoyed young girls. If he'd crossed the line with his daughter, I'd peel the flesh from his bones with my knife.

Needing to touch her, I rested my hand on her thigh and lowered my voice. "Celine, what did he take from you?"

She swallowed hard. Tears filled her eyes. She reached for her cocktail glass but, finding it empty, drank from a goblet of water instead. "My painting."

I slowly breathed in. "Your painting?"

"I know, I sound ridiculous. But it isn't just a painting." She opened her clutch, unfolded the program for tonight, and handed it to me. "It means something to me. He wouldn't have known that because he doesn't care about anything or anyone but himself."

"You have a painting in the auction?" I glanced to the far side of the room. I didn't need to ask which piece was hers. Only one contradicted the fragile, quiet girl sitting next to me and perfectly depicted her anger toward her father.

"Seeing my painting on the wall, sold to the highest bidder, is going to kill me." She rested her hands in her lap. "I know he doesn't care about my feelings. I still can't believe he took it and never said anything."

"Fuck your father. Have it removed from the auction. It was taken without your permission."

She rolled her eyes. "You must not know my father very well."

I hadn't given a fuck-all about her father before he interfered with my business. Now, I had another reason to settle a debt. "I met him for the first time tonight."

There wasn't even a hint of a smile on her beautiful lips. "Take my advice. Don't cross him. He's dangerous." She clipped her words as if she could snatch them back.

"Are you afraid of him?"

Her gaze lingered on mine. Then she inhaled, and her body shuddered as she exhaled. "Of course not. I just meant he's powerful because he's the district attorney. I wouldn't embarrass him by making a scene."

"You could look at it as getting your first showing. If it brings in a large amount for the auction, you'll be a local celebrity artist."

She glanced right then left, and she whispered, "I placed an anonymous bid for a thousand dollars. Do you think anyone will outbid me?" She tucked her hair behind her ear. "I mean, who would spend more than a thousand dollars for an unknown artist?"

I could tell her. Men like her father. Sick fucks who wanted to own a piece of the girl who painted it.

And men like me. Obsessed monsters. Collectors of scars. She revealed hers in the painting. A beautiful disaster.