𝐇𝐞'𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐧. 𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.
For five years, I've been her shadow. Her silent guardian. Her darkest nightmare. Every breath she takes, every...
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The gallery lights catch on her silver dress like moonlight on broken glass, the silk clinging to every curve I've memorised from afar. Valentina moves through the crowd, champagne flute in hand, her hips swaying in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
Every man in the room watches her—they can't help themselves. She's a masterpiece among the paintings, and the urge to gouge out their eyes for looking makes my fingers twitch.
I adjust my position near the back wall, a shadow in a black tux. The weight of my gun presses against my ribs, a constant reminder of why I'm here, and the knife that's strapped to my ankle whispers promises of blood to come. Romano's warning plays on repeat in my head.
The Russians are getting bolder. They want to send a message.
They've been trying for months now. Each attempt ends the same way—with me adding names to my growing list of sins committed in her name. The body count is becoming almost poetic.
A flash of silver catches my attention as Valentina throws her head back in practised laughter at something one of the art critics says. The arch of her throat makes my cock throb, imagining how easily my hand would fit around it. Her dress dips low in the back, revealing a constellation of freckles I've traced with my eyes a thousand times. Even from across the room, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers grip her glass too tight.
She hates these events. Hates playing the perfect mafia princess.
Hates me being here even more.
When her eyes find mine across the room, they're like storm clouds, dark and grey, promising violence. I hold her gaze, unflinching. Let her see the monster that lurks beneath. The beast that paces behind my ribcage, desperate to claim what it can never have. Her lips curl slightly—she knows what I am. What I do for her.
She just can't prove it.
Someone new enters my peripheral vision. Navy suit, white shirt, expensive watch, moving through the crowd with too much purpose. My instincts flare to life as he checks his phone, then changes direction.
Towards her.
Towards what's mine.
I push off the wall, tracking his movement through the sea of champagne glasses and pretentious conversation. He gets within ten feet of Valentina before catching my eye. The fear that flashes across his face is familiar. Expected.
He immediately turns, heading for the service corridor.
Smart man. But not smart enough.
I follow, keeping my pace unhurried. The corridor is empty when I enter, but a door at the far end clicks shut. The maintenance area. Perfect.
