1. Cristiano

C ristiano

I shift on my chair and sink backward into the shadows, where I'm most comfortable. Joe's Bar is the only establishment in this part of the city not under my family's rule, and as I observe my surroundings with detached curiosity, I'm impressed at how the fabric of this place has transformed in just a few hours.

Since I arrived at five p.m., I've seen every type of patron, from workers having a quick beer and young women on a bachelorette party, right through to shady Casanovas out for a slow scotch and a quick lay. And now the sky outside is black and those allergic to daylight have come out of the cracks in the street, it feels like I'm in a different place altogether.

Loud whispers fill dark corners; thick fingers graze bare skin. Deceit and debauchery taste too sweet in the air. As for the dress code, it appears anything goes, as long as you can turn a blind eye to bad behavior.

I came here to prolong the inevitable. As soon as word gets out that I'm back in New York, the days will no longer be my own. The whole city has its eyes on the Di Santos, and just because I left ten years ago doesn't mean I'm exempt from the view. If anything, the changing dynamics of our family and my role in it are sure to make our advisors giddy with the suggestion of returning blood. And that won't please my brother at all .

My eyes drift to the clock. It's getting close to midnight.

I pick up the glass of water I haven't touched for several hours and bring the rim to my lips. Glancing across the room one more time, I tip it back and swallow the lot. Only a few heads turn my way as I stand. My height and build make me a little conspicuous, but the tailored suit and black shirt cover up any clue as to who I am.

I'm almost at the exit when a door to my left bursts open and something small and fluttery collides with my ribs. A young woman stares up at me, her large eyes wide with shock, and short, nervous breaths escape her full lips. Her hands are pressed against my torso to steady herself, and I don't miss the way her fingertips curl into my shirt when our eyes meet.

She swallows with some effort. Then she looks down, realizes she's still touching me, and withdraws her hands quickly. Her cheeks are flushed pink when she glances back up.

"I ... I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going. Did I, um ... Did I hurt you?"

Her words are stuttered and slightly slurred, but her voice . She sounds like she just tanked a full pack of Marlboro Reds. I almost laugh, but she's being serious, so I bite my cheek before I reply.

"No, you didn't hurt me. Did I hurt you ?"

She blinks long, dark lashes at me. The movement is lazy and languid, which tells me she's had a few too many drinks. I take in her taut, unblemished skin and delicate build—she can't be more than eighteen, surely. Too young and too fragile to be drinking alcohol in backstreet bars.

"Um . . . no."

"That's good."

The sound of grinding bone vibrates around us, and it takes me a few seconds to notice I'm cracking my knuckles.

"You came at me with some speed."

She wrings her hands together. "I'm really sorry."

Something dark and more Di Santo than I'd like to admit crosses my mind. "Can I see your ID?"

Just like that, the blood drains from her face. "Excuse me?"

"Your ID," I repeat. "Can I see it?"

Any sober person would question my right to ask, but I'm pretty sure this little one isn't sober at all.

"W-why?"

It's a good question. Why do I want to see her ID?

At first I just wanted to see her reaction, and I've seen that now, along with everything but the stone-cold evidence she's underage. But I realize even though this is merely a fleeting visit and I'm not here to find a woman I can walk away from in the morning without so much as a backward glance, I want more than just a reaction from this girl. I want her name .

"Because I need to know whose secret I'm keeping."

She blinks again, then her wide eyes soften, and she breathes out a resigned sigh. She reaches into a straw basket hanging over her arm and pulls out a driver's license. I instantly spot the telltale signs of a counterfeit.

The photo is genuine and doesn't do her justice. But it's the wording below it I'm interested in.

Trilby Castellano.

A faint thread of recognition winds its way through my mind. There are a thousand Castellanos in this city, but not Trilbys, and I'm sure I've heard that name before.

Her bottom lip trembles slightly when my gaze glides from the license in my hand back to her. Her large eyes are lined with black kohl that flicks up at the outer corners, and her lips bear the remnants of a cherry-red stain that probably wore off hours ago. She looks oddly—interestingly—vintage. Her white dress clings to her waist and flares out at the hips. Her dark hair has been bleached to the tips and curled in the style of Marilyn Monroe. There's even a crystal comb above her ear that looks just like the one my nonna used to wear.

Without another word, I hand the license back to her and shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks. Her lip's still trembling, yet there's a defiance in her expression as she tips her chin upward.

"Did it tell you what you needed to know?"

I wipe the beginning of a smirk from my mouth with a rough thumb. "For now."

She straightens her shoulders, and her bleached hair bobs about her face like cotton candy. "Well then." She goes to step past me. "It was nice meeting you."

She's implying I was on my way out, and I can't tell if she's feeling hopeful about it or regretful, which annoys me, because I can usually read people effortlessly. Managing casinos for the best part of ten years has delivered me an unrivaled education in human behavior.

"I wasn't leaving," I lie. "I was going to the restroom."

Her cheeks flush again. "Well, this is the ladies' restroom." She nods to the other side of the room. "The men's is over there."

I run my tongue across my teeth, taking my long-ass time about it, and enjoy her obvious discomfort. Then I lazily cock a brow. "Thanks."

She tugs the bag higher up her shoulder, turns, and walks clumsily back to the bar.

I silently curse my decision to stay as I head to the restroom. I was hoping to spend an early-ish, quiet night in my Tribeca apartment, lying low for a few hours longer, but for reasons I won't try to understand, I don't want to give this girl the satisfaction of a reprieve.

I reach the door and look over my shoulder. She's talking to the bartender, and even from the far corner of the room I can see his cheeks flushing and his eyes lighting up. She sits haphazardly on a stool in front of him and then somehow manages to slide right off the other end, landing in a heap on the floor.

I find it hard to believe she's a regular drinker, because she has no tolerance for it at all.

Three grown men rush to her aid and hoist her up.

When she's back on the stool, she turns her head slightly until she can see me out of the corner of her eye. Embarrassment burns up those pretty cheeks. I save her from further mortification by walking straight into the restroom.

The door closes behind me, drowning out the thick bass of "Sinister Kid" by The Black Keys, which thankfully makes the voice in my head clearer.

One week, Cristiano .

That's all I'm here for. To lay Father to rest, congratulate my brother on his new title, and tie up a few loose ends. Then I'll fly back to Vegas, never to return to this coast again. I'll have no reason to. Mama died ten years ago, Papa has gone, and my brother has taken on the top job—one that's bound to keep him far too busy to be bothered with surviving relatives. Sure, we have other family members in the city, but they're more than happy to vacation in one of my casino hotels; I don't need to be in New York to stay in touch.

The bottom line is, I'm not sticking around, so there's no point in making nice with a random woman I just met in a questionable bar, no matter how much she intrigues me.

I emerge from the restroom in time to see the bartender push a cocktail glass into her hand: a bright blue concoction topped with a curl of orange peel and a paper umbrella. Her gaze drifts to the man at her side, then her lids lift, and our eyes lock. My breath sticks in my throat.

She's sitting a good fifteen feet away, but I can see the color of her irises. Turquoise, like the Atlantic.

I walk to the other end of the bar and slide onto a stool.

The bartender looks up, his expression bordering on cocky. "You gonna have a real drink now?"

I wrap a hand around my neck and rub. My life in Vegas is hardly stress-free, but being back in this city makes me feel tighter than a wound spring. "Whiskey. Neat."

"Coming right up."

He pours two fingers and places the glass on a coaster. "So, where are you visiting from?"

"Who says I'm visiting?"

He huffs out a laugh, narrowing my eyes. "Our clientele is pretty steady. I haven't seen you here before, and don't take this the wrong way, but ..."

My eyes narrow further. Whenever anyone says that, there's never a right way to take it.

"But?"

"If you were from this city, you'd be sitting in a different bar."

I knock back half the whiskey. "Why's that?"

He stares at me like he's trying to figure me out. "You know this part of the city is owned by the Di Santos ... right?"

"Is it?" I decide to play dumb. People give up more information that way.

His eyes light up. Finally, new blood he can bestow his wisdom on. "Only a few businesses have managed to slip out from their greasy fingers. This is one of them."

"Greasy fingers, huh?"

He leans toward me with a slightly curled lip. "Italian Mafia scum," he says, low and quiet.

I bite back a smile. If only he knew who he was talking to. I may not be involved in the crime side of our family anymore, but the blood still runs through my veins, and the gun in my waistband is loaded. But I'll spare him this one time.

"Why don't they want this place?"

"Nothing in it for them."

He's right about that.

"What do you mean?"

A smirk crosses his cocky lips. "It's a backstreet dive you're sitting in, buddy. The only people who come here are those who don't want to be seen. And in a city like New York, there aren't too many of those, you know?The Di Santos wouldn't get a cent out of this place. Not worth their time."

I knock back the rest of the whiskey and push the glass toward him for a refill.

While the dickwad pours another two fingers my gaze is pulled to the right. The Castellano girl is chatting quietly to two of the men. There's nothing suggestive in any of their body language, but the sight still stiffens my spine. The bartender's words ring in my ears. "The only people who come here are those who don't want to be seen."

"What's her story?" I ask as he refills my glass.

"Who—Tril?"

The way he says her name makes my shoulders tense.

He picks up a glass and starts to polish it with a dirty cloth. "You won't see her in here again for another year."

"What?"

"Only comes in once every twelve months," he repeats. "Has done for the past five years." When I don't respond, he looks up. "It's the anniversary of her mom's death."

Something heavy settles in my chest as I look back at her. She's swaying gently on the stool while the two men have a conversation across her.

"Don't expect her to talk to you about it," the bartender warns. "I only know because I asked around. She was real young the first time she came in here, but she looked so broken. She needed to forget something, so I served her." He glances at me, perhaps expecting some kind of reprimand because she must have been a young teenager then. He sighs. "She was fifteen."

I don't say anything.

"Like I said, she needed something, and to be frank, we needed her money."

My brows draw together, and I feel the familiar dark desire to put a bullet between another man's eyes. His . There were other ways he could've helped her that didn't involve serving her alcohol or greedily taking the small amount of money she'd have spent to escape her demons. It sounds suspiciously like he took advantage of a grieving underage girl.

He places the dirty glass on a shelf and lifts another one to polish.

My thoughts begin to roam the different ways I could punish him for being a prize dick, but they're quickly interrupted by a warm sensation caressing my right side. I turn to see the girl zigzagging past me. She averts her gaze and walks off to the restroom.

Turning my back to the bartender, I lean my elbows on the bar and slowly sip my whiskey while I watch the restroom door. When it opens again, I don't look up, but as she passes, something possesses me to push out a foot. She stumbles over it, and I catch her from falling. Breath gushes from her lungs, and her eyes fly open in shock.

With my arm wrapped around her torso, she makes no more of an attempt to wriggle free than I do to release her. She's surprisingly small and warm. Her pert breasts press teasingly into my forearm.

She slurs a breathless apology.

"Don't apologize," I say firmly.

When she finds her feet, I reluctantly let my arm slip from her body.

"Are you okay?"

She rubs her eyes, smudging a little of the kohl across her lids. "I guess I drank a little too much."

And I purposely tripped you up. But then again, if she weren't so drunk, she'd have noticed my foot.

I call over my shoulder to the bartender. "Can I get a glass of water?"

It takes a while, but a half-full glass eventually appears. He's probably cursing me for getting her off the hard stuff. I watch as she sips it then cradles the glass in her hands.

"I don't normally drink," she says, her gaze on the floor.

"I can tell. You don't seem to handle it all that well. Why bother drinking at all?"

She looks up with a frown, and there's an unexpected bite in her tone when she replies. "I don't have to explain myself to you." As if she's overstepped a boundary, her skin flushes again. "I'm sorry. That was rude. And very ... unlike me."

I watch her, thoughtful. "You're right though. You don't have to explain yourself."

She laughs darkly. "That's a relief. Most people expect me to." When she looks up again, there's a new boldness in the set of her jaw. "What's your secret?"

I take a long sip of whiskey to steady my pulse. "Who says I have a secret?"

"Everyone who comes here has a secret. Something to hide."

I think about it and how right she is.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, would it?"

She looks away, but I don't miss the deeper shade of pink inching up her chest. "I guess not."

"Is that why you're here?" I ask. "Because you have a secret."

"Maybe." She glances up timidly. "Or maybe I come to Joe's because it's preferable to every other bar in this part of the city."

I'm intrigued. Not only because every other bar around here is either owned or ruled by my family. "How so?"

She looks around. "It's not perfect here, but at least there's no violence."

Something hardens behind my chest. "What do you have against violence?"

She touches the crystals in her hair, and when she answers, there's a bitter burn in her voice. "It's a weapon of the weak."

There's more to this girl than a tragic story and an annual drunken escapade. There's anger and a thirst for revenge. I lived on the dark side of our world for long enough that I can smell it.

I neck more whiskey. "Yeah, well, there's violence and there's violence."

Now I feel her gaze.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I place my glass on the bar and drift my focus to her. "It means there's more to violence than death and destruction."

Her expression darkens. "I doubt it."

"One day, if you're lucky, you'll find someone who can show you." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I feel her gasp in my gut. I change the topic before I can say anything else without thinking it through. "Do you live in the city?"

She shakes her head. "Long Island."

My ears prick up. "Which part?"

"Near Port Washington."

Interesting. That's not far from the Di Santo residence.

Her eyes narrow. "And before you ask, I'm not telling you which house. I may be a little drunk, but I'm not stupid."

I arch a brow. "A little drunk?"

She rolls her eyes to the ground and folds her arms across her chest.

"Why are you here alone?" I ask.

She looks up and coasts one arm in front of her. "Does this look like I'm alone?"

"That's not what I meant. You don't appear to be with anyone." I flick a gaze sideways. "And those two assholes don't count."

Her face contorts into a grimace as if I just trod on her cat. "They are not assholes. They're regulars here."

"You're avoiding the question."

She falls quiet and starts to chew on her lip. I feel an unbridled need to pull it out from between her teeth.

"We don't all have idyllic pasts, you know."

I don't know who she's insinuating has had an idyllic past, but I let her continue.

"I have ... memories. And sometimes I just need a little help blurring them out."

The bartender slides another blue drink in her direction, and she smiles guiltily before wrapping her lips around the straw.

After a long sip, she flashes her eyes up to me. "What's your excuse?"

"Excuse for what? I'm not drunk."

She's about to roll her eyes again, but she stops herself and instead bats her long, dark lashes. "What's a nice gentleman like you doing alone in a miserable dark bar like this?" Those eyelashes are loaded with sarcasm.

I place the glass down carefully. "It doesn't seem all that miserable to me."

When she parts her lips to probe, I cut her off. "And besides, I'm not that nice, and I'm definitely no gentleman."

She laughs bitterly. "Well, if you weren't the most attractive guy in here already, you certainly are now."

I bite back a grin and shake my head.

"Seriously. You show me a girl who doesn't like bad news, and I'll show you a liar."

"You think I'm bad news?"

She rests the straw against her lips, drawing every ounce of my focus to them, and nods.

I swallow and try to remember her original question. "I'm surrounded by people constantly when I'm working. All day every day. This ..." I look around the bar and try not to smirk. "Is my me time."

She folds her arms. "What about when you're not working?"

"I run casinos. I'm always working." I turn to lift my glass and gulp back a larger than planned mouthful of the scotch. My throat isn't too happy about it, but it'll live.

"But you're here on a break?"

I almost choke. "Not quite."

"Well then, why are you here?"

I swirl the whiskey around one more time. I shouldn't have let the conversation go this far. If I tell her I'm here because my father just died, it won't take much for her to figure out who I am. And then she'll run a mile.

I settle on: "Family matters." Then I throw the rest of the whiskey down my throat and place the glass on the bar.

"You want another of those?" Her tone is playful.

Our eyes lock, and in those few seconds I consider indulging myself with another whiskey. But the door to the bar bangs against a wall, knocking the thought from my head.

What the fuck am I thinking? I have duties to carry out, people to console, papers to sign. I'd only be prolonging the inevitable, and I need a clear head for the coming days. I consider inviting her back to my place—a quick, hard fuck could be just what I need—but there's a timidness about her that makes me think she'd run for the hills at the mere suggestion.

"No. It's time I headed home."

She pushes herself upright and hardens her jaw. "You're leaving?" she asks quietly.

"Yeah. I have a busy day tomorrow."

She smooths a hand over her hip. "Right. Okay, well, it was nice meeting you. I'm Trilby, by the way."

Something pulls at me. Her name really is familiar. I'm sure we've met before, even though she clearly doesn't remember it.

"I'm Cristiano." I watch her face carefully for any flicker of recognition, but it doesn't come. "Can I ask ... how long have you lived near Port Washington?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't. I'm just curious."

She shrugs, her eyelids falling heavy. "All my life."

If she was fifteen when she first came in here five years ago, that makes her twenty now—eight years younger than me. Our paths may well have crossed.

She sways side to side.

"Isn't it time you went home too?" I suggest.

Her skin pales. "I don't want to go home yet." As she says the words, she sways too far to the right and stumbles into a table.

I grab her before she can fall, trying not to process how soft her skin feels beneath my fingertips. The bartender appears, looking concerned.

"Yeah," I say. "I think it's home time. Come on—I can give you a ride."

Her eyes flash suddenly, and she yanks her arms from my grip. "I'm not getting in a car with you," she snaps. "I don't even know you."

"Fine." Reaching into my jacket pocket instead, I pull out a thick roll of hundreds. I flick a few out and slap them on the bar. "Make sure she gets home safe." I direct the words to the bartender, but my eyes bore into her.

Her face blanches. "You're paying him to have me leave?"

"I'm paying him to get you home in one piece," I reply.

She narrows her eyes like a seething cat, and there's a flash of fire behind them.

The bartender puts an arm around her shoulders, and every muscle in my body tenses. "Come on, T. Have another glass of water, then we'll get you in a cab."

T.

Blood thumps through my temples.

Her brows knit as she looks at him. "I'm fine, Brett," she slurs.

The bartender flushes pink. "It's actually Rhett, but, you know, phonetically, it's about the same."

She staggers to a stool, and he finally releases her.

I exhale slowly and uncurl my fists. I didn't know I'd clenched them, but I can feel crescent-shaped indentations in my palms.

I unbutton the collar of my shirt and look around at the clientele. It surprises me how few people I recognize. All day I've been looking for something—anything—that might suggest the opposite of what I know to be true. That my father hasn't just died. That I'm returning to a place untouched by his absence. But all that's become clear while sitting in Joe's is that whether our loved ones are dead or alive, the world keeps on turning. And distractions in white dresses don't help much.

I take one last look at her sitting on the barstool, the dim light casting her pretty features in a tragic shadow, making her all the more beautiful for it.

Then I head out into the darkness.