Chapter 2 - THE MONSTER IN THE TAILORED SUIT
I sat in my Honda for a full ten minutes, staring at the glowing screen of my phone as if it were an unexploded bomb. The text message mocked me. Obscenely hot? That is a dangerous adjective, Roslyn.
He knew my name. Of course, he knew my name. Alessandro Valente was the kind of man who knew everything about everyone who so much as breathed the same air as his son. Leo and I had been inseparable since culinary school, which meant Alessandro had likely run a background check on me that included my blood type and my third-grade report cards. But knowing he was aware of my existence was vastly different from receiving a direct text from the Don of the Boston underworld, acknowledging that I found him—to use my own mortifying words—*obscenely hot*.
I squeezed my eyes shut, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. The leather was cold. I considered turning the key, driving out of the Fairmont garage, and not stopping until I hit Montreal. I could open a small bakery. I could change my name to Brenda. Brenda wouldn't accidentally text a mafia boss.
My phone vibrated again, buzzing aggressively against the center console. I flinched, half-expecting another terrifyingly suave message from Alessandro. Instead, the caller ID flashed Leo’s face.
"Where are you?" Leo demanded the second I answered, the background noise of the gala muffled behind him. "You went to the restroom twenty minutes ago. If you bolted, I swear to God, Roslyn, I will track you down and eat all of your hidden emergency chocolate."
"I'm in my car," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mixture of residual trauma and fresh, unfiltered humiliation. "Leo, I did something terrible. I did something so catastrophically stupid that I don't think I can ever show my face in polite society again."
"Did you spill red wine on the mayor's wife?" Leo asked, sounding more amused than concerned. "Because honestly, she deserves it. Her Botox is tragic."
"No. I texted your dad."
Silence stretched over the line. "You did what?"
"I meant to text you," I rambled, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a frantic rush. "You pointed him out across the room, and I was trying to make a joke to you to ease my anxiety, but I typed 'Valente' into my contacts and clicked the wrong one, and Leo, I told him he was obscenely hot, and he replied, and I am going to drive my car into the Charles River."
Leo barked out a laugh. A loud, booming, entirely inappropriate laugh. "You texted my father that he’s obscenely hot? The man who makes city councilmen cry? The man who probably has three different sniper rifles pointed at him right now?"
"It's not funny, Leo! I'm ruined!"
"Rosie, breathe," Leo said, his tone softening into the gentle, protective cadence he always used when my anxiety spiked. "My father is a lot of things. Ruthless, terrifying, emotionally constipated. But he’s also a man with an ego. You probably made his decade. Now, get out of your car and come back inside. No one is going to shoot you for having functioning eyes."
"I can't look at him," I whimpered.
"You don't have to look at him. Just look at me. Come on. I have a plate of truffle arancini waiting for you."
Food. The ultimate bribe. I took a deep, shuddering breath, smoothed down the emerald green silk of my dress, and stepped out of the car. My heels clicked against the concrete as I made my way back to the elevators, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
When the elevator doors parted on the ballroom level, the noise of the gala hit me like a physical wave. The clinking of crystal, the murmur of old money, the soft jazz playing from the stage. I navigated the perimeter of the room, keeping my head down, searching for Leo’s familiar blonde hair.
Instead, I found a wall of solid, tailored muscle.
I collided with someone, a sharp gasp escaping my lips as strong hands instantly shot out to grip my arms, steadying me before I could stumble in my heels. The grip was firm, unyielding, and entirely too warm.
"Careful, Roslyn."
The voice was a low, dark rumble that vibrated straight down to my toes. It was the kind of voice that commanded absolute obedience without ever having to raise its volume.
I looked up, and my breath simply stopped.
Alessandro Valente was a masterpiece of lethal elegance. Up close, the whispered rumors about him didn't do him justice. He was tall—several inches over six feet—with broad shoulders encased in a bespoke black tuxedo that fit him with predatory perfection. His hair was jet black, heavily threaded with silver at the temples, giving him an air of distinguished authority. But it was his eyes that froze me in place. They were dark, bottomless, and currently gleaming with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher. Amusement? Danger? Both?
"Mr. Valente," I managed to squeak out, my face burning with the heat of a thousand suns. I tried to step back, but his hands remained on my arms for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his thumbs brushing the bare skin of my arms.
"Alessandro," he corrected smoothly, dropping his hands and sliding them into his trouser pockets. "You look as though you're preparing to face a firing squad. I assure you, my men are strictly instructed not to shoot the beautiful women my son invites to my events."
My heart did a complicated, terrifying flip. Beautiful women.
"I... I wanted to apologize," I stammered, my eyes darting to his silk tie because looking at his face was too overwhelming. "For the text. It was a mistake. I meant to send it to Leo. I wasn't... I didn't mean to disrespect you."
Alessandro took a step closer. The scent of him—cedar, expensive bergamot, and a faint, metallic hint of danger—enveloped me. The ambient noise of the ballroom seemed to fade away, leaving only the charged, electric space between us.
"Disrespect?" he murmured, leaning down slightly so his voice was meant only for me. "I didn't take it as disrespect, Roslyn. I took it as a painfully honest observation. Though, I must admit, I am curious..."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his dark, predatory gaze. "Curious about what?"
A slow, devastating smirk curved the corner of his mouth. "Curious if you truly find me obscenely hot, or if you were simply exaggerating for my son's amusement."
Before I could spontaneously combust from embarrassment, a booming voice interrupted us. "Dad! Stop terrifying my best friend!"
Leo materialized beside me, slinging a protective arm around my shoulders. He glared at his father, though there was no real heat behind it. "She has anxiety, you menace. Stop looking at her like she's a hostile corporate takeover."
Alessandro straightened up, the playful darkness in his eyes instantly vanishing into a mask of stoic, paternal authority. "I was merely welcoming her to the gala, Leonardo. Ensuring she felt... accommodated."
"Right. Well, she's accommodated. We're going to the buffet." Leo pulled me away, but not before Alessandro’s gaze locked with mine one last time. It was a heavy, lingering look that felt like a brand.
"Enjoy your evening, Roslyn," Alessandro said quietly. "And please, feel free to text me anytime."
May you like
As Leo dragged me toward the catering tables, my knees felt weak. I had spent the last six months hiding from the world, terrified of shadows, terrified of men who wanted to control me. But the fear fluttering in my stomach right now wasn't born of trauma.
It was born of something entirely, dangerously new.
