Gabriel POV
The champagne was cold. I let the single sip dissolve on my tongue and leaned back against the cool marble of the balcony, my right hand in my trousers pocket. Inside the ballroom, people in tailored suits and gowns worth more than most people's yearly salary swirled under the chandeliers. Fancy people, fancy lies, and fancy crimes.
Ten more minutes. Then I could disappear.
My gaze swept the room one last time, a checklist. The mayor, check. The police commissioner, check. The shipping magnates and the bankers, check. The performance was complete.
Then my eyes found the axis around which this whole shiny world spun: Santino Scarfoni.
Even at fifty, the man didn't just occupy a room; he swallowed the light in it.
My step-brother. Porto Magnifico's king.
A soft click of heels beside me, followed by the familiar scent of jasmine.
"If your face gets any stiffer, caro, it'll crack and ruin that beautiful suit."
Alessia Rossi appeared at the railing, wearing a crimson silk floor-length gown. A political star on the rise, and a friend, don't know if I could say that.
"It's the patented 'Conti Survival Smile,'" I said, not looking at her. "Very taxing on the cheeks."
She followed my sightline to Santino. "He's in a mood tonight. I saw Carlo sweating through his shirt earlier. Someone's books didn't balance."
"Someone's books never balance to his satisfaction."
She was quiet for a moment, studying me. "You know, for the man who legally runs half his empire, you look at him like he might have you shot for using the wrong fork."
I finally turned my head, meeting her shrewd, dark eyes. "That's because he might, Alessia. The fork is just the excuse."
A faint line appeared between her brows. She'd known me for years, since I'd been thrown into the deep end of Scarfoni's "legitimate" ventures.
"It's been, what, fourteen years since the old Don died?" she asked, her voice deliberately casual.
"Yeah." The date was burned into me. The smell of the funeral lilies, the stifling heat in the great hall, the feel of the pen in my hand as I signed my own humiliation away. Scarfoni becoming Conti again, in front of every made man and hungry rival in the city.
"Vittorio gave you his name," she stated.
"He did. A lonely old man after his wife died. Married my mother, gave her a hopeless, fatherless son a legacy." I took another sip, the champagne now tasting bitter. "I was ten. Santino never saw a little brother. He saw a cuckoo in the nest."
My eyes drifted back to Santino. He'd thrown his head back to laugh at something, the chandelier light catching the silver expertly threaded through his dark hair at the temples. It made him look distinguished, not old.
"And when Vittorio died…" Alessia prompted softly.
"The earth was still fresh on the grave." My voice was flat. "Santino took control. And his first act as Don was to make it clear that the cuckoo was to be plucked out. Publicly." I finished the champagne. "I run his businesses because I'm useful. I breathe because I make sure he can't find a reason, however small, to decide I'm not."
Alessia was silent, her gaze now fixed on Santino.
"So you watch your forks," she murmured.
"I watch everything," I said, setting the empty flute on the railing. "And my ten minutes are up. Time to vanish."
Alessia watched me. "Leaving so soon?"
"Soon?" I checked my watch. "Two hours is more than enough. My work here is done. I don't have another part to play tonight."
"So you're going home alone?" she asked, her voice taking on a lighter, probing tone.
"Yes."
"Don't you get lonely in that big penthouse all by yourself?" A slow, knowing smile played on her lips. "I could come with you. Keep you company."
I knew she was needling me. I gave her a flat look. "I could take you home, Alessia. But by tomorrow morning, there'd be a trail."
I reached out and tapped her forehead playfully with my finger. "And you know who'd be following it. Santino. So, unless you have a death wish, I suggest you stay."
She rolled her eyes, the gesture elegant and dismissive. "Honestly, Gabriel. He's obsessed with you in the weirdest way. Like he can't stand to let you out of his sight. He doesn't even let you have a proper date."
A short, dry laugh escaped me. "It's not like that. It's just… I have to be smart. I have to choose very, very carefully." I met her gaze, all playfulness gone. "You are a rising political star. If I give Santino even a whisper of a reason to think we're getting too close—closer than he'd find useful—he won't just end me. He'll end you, too. To tie up the loose end. Santino is a man who would kill his own child if he smelled betrayal. He is paranoid, and he does not take risks."
She studied my face, the truth of it settling between us like a cold stone. "Santino is not God, Gabriel."
"Exactly," I said, my voice quiet. "He's much worse."
I didn't wait for her reply. With a final, slight nod, I said, "Goodnight, Alessia," and turned, weaving back through the glittering crowd without a backward glance.
I slipped out. The muffled sounds of the party faded behind me, replaced by the tap of my own shoes on marble.
The elevator at the end was a private one, leading down to the secure garage. I pressed the button for the parking level and leaned against the back wall, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
The doors began to slide shut. Then a hand shot out, blocking them.
They hissed back open.
Luca Scarfoni stepped inside.
The space, which had felt empty a second before, was suddenly full. He filled it, not just with his height and the breadth of his shoulders in that impeccably cut black-on-black suit, but with a kind of restless, contained energy. The overhead light carved sharp angles on his face.
"Uncle," he drawled, the word a lazy, familiar taunt. "Running away already?"
He didn't press a button. He just let the doors close, sealing us in. The elevator began its descent.
"Luca," I said, keeping my tone neutral. The polite, distant step-uncle. "I didn't see you at the party."
"Parties bore me," he said, his eyes not leaving mine. He leaned one shoulder against the mirrored wall, a picture of indolent ease. "Boring things are a poison. But lucky for me, I find the antidote pretty quickly."
He didn't move, but his presence seemed to lean in. A scent came with him, a feminine perfume. Of course. He was twenty-two. Hot-blooded, handsome, and heir to everything. He wouldn't be short of entertainment.
"Good for you," I said, turning my gaze to the descending floor numbers. Four… Three…
He was watching me in the reflection of the doors. I could feel it. His hands were in his pockets, his posture deceptively relaxed.
"You didn't ask what my antidote was tonight," he said, his voice a low rumble in the small space.
"It's none of my business, Luca."
"Isn't it?" He pushed off from the wall, just as the elevator settled with a soft chime. The doors didn't open. He must have hit the stop button. He took a single step closer, not enough to crowd me, but enough for the scent of perfume and his own warm skin to become unmistakable. "You're family. Shouldn't you take an interest?"
He was playing a game. A dangerous, pointless game he'd been playing more and more lately. Testing boundaries.
"My interest," I said, keeping my voice flat, "is in getting to my car and going home. It's late."
A slow, sharp smile touched his mouth. It didn't reach his cold eyes. "Always in a hurry to get away from us, Uncle. It makes a man wonder what you're running to. Or who?"
The implication hung in the air, ugly and deliberate. He was Santino's son through and through.
"I'm running to my bed, Luca. It's called being an adult with a business to run in the morning." I reached past him, my arm brushing the wool of his sleeve, and hit the door release button.
The doors slid open, revealing the garage.
I stepped out without looking back. "Sleep well, Uncle," his voice followed me, a velvet-wrapped mockery.
I didn't answer. I walked to my car, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back until I slid into the driver's seat and shut the world out.
___________________________________
The opening was going perfectly. Gwenael's steel-and-glass sculptures glittered under the gallery lights, and the right people murmured the right things. Through Gwenael's "production team," a significant amount of Santino's money was currently becoming three abstract pieces titled "Ethereal Flux," soon to be bought by a shell corporation in Luxembourg. Art, as they say.
I was playing the part. Soft cream sweater, beige trousers, the Rolex a quiet, necessary prop. I found Gwenael by the largest piece, a twisted helix of mirrored metal.
"You satisfied?" I asked him, handing him a fresh glass of champagne.
He took it, his smile wide and genuine. "Of course. Is it even possible for you to be involved and for something to not be satisfying?" He laughed, a little too loud. "You are a good luck charm, Conti."
I gave him a smile, the kind that doesn't touch your eyes but convinces people it has. Communication skills baby. "Oh, come on. That's not me. That's all you. Your work… it's beautiful." I gestured vaguely at the helix. It was the correct thing to say.
His face lit up, the champagne and the praise going to his head. "You know," he said, his gaze turning appraising, sliding from my face down and back up. "Conti… I want to sculpt you."
I raised an eyebrow. "Me? Why?"
He looked at me like the answer was obvious. "Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror?"
"Every day when I shave," I said flatly.
"Then you shouldn't have to ask!" He spread his hands, gesturing at all of me. "The lines, the angles… you are an artist's dream. A perfect subject. From every side."
A real laugh escaped me then, short and startled. It was the sheer, ridiculous audacity of it. Second-hand embarrassment washed over me, hot and prickling. This guy was hitting on me.
"Are you…" I shook my head, amused and slightly mortified. "Are you trying to flirt with me, Gwenael?"
He just grinned, shrugging. "Is it working?"
"No."