"Your dad will kill us if we don't attend this event, you know."
Sky said it with a grin, dangling a grape in front of Day like a peace offering. Day didn't even glance up from his phone. The shadows of the chandelier overhead danced across his sharp jawline, making him look even colder than usual.
"He won't kill me," Day muttered.
Sky sighed dramatically and flopped backward onto the plush velvet couch of Day's penthouse. Everything in here was too expensive, too quiet, too him. Cold marble floors. Black leather. A painting of some headless statue in gold frame. Mafia-chic.
"Then he'll kill me, and you'll have no one to make those weird little lemon tarts for you anymore," Sky pouted.
That got Day's attention—barely. He raised an eyebrow. "They're not weird. They're good."
Sky grinned. Victory.
Day finally put his phone down, steepling his fingers like he was considering a military operation instead of a charity gala. "We go for thirty minutes. No wandering off. No talking to anyone who looks like they've killed before."
Sky's smile widened. "So basically, avoid your entire family."
Day's expression didn't change, but Sky caught the twitch in his lips. Not quite a smile—but close.
It was supposed to be just a night out. Just Sky in a glittery shirt and Day in a designer suit, blending into the crowd like two normal twenty-somethings who didn't have the mafia breathing down their necks.
But that was before the gunshots.
Before the blood.
Before Sky found out who Day really was.
And before he realized he'd already fallen too deep to run.