Page 1 of Auctioned To Her Dad's Mafia Enemies

1

AEMELIA

MYFIRST MISTAKE

Tonight, I serve wine and champagne tomafia devils and pretend the air is scented with roses and jasmine, not bloodand death, the real perfume this life is built upon.

I keep my expression neutral as Isurvey the sprawling estate, but my fingers tighten around the silver tray I’mbalancing, knuckles whitening under the weight of both glass and expectation.

Marble pillars rise to meet ahigh vaulted ceiling, their sheer enormity designed to impress. Chandeliersspill light like liquid gold, setting the room aglow, and a string quartetplays a melody so sweet it makes my chest ache.

It’s a world of power,indulgence, and ruthlessness, and I don’t belong.

I shift my shoulders, adjusting the thin black straps ofmy waitress uniform as they dig into my skin. The dress code is supposed tomake us blend in—simple, black, professional—but in a room of haute couturegowns and tuxedos tailored with lethal precision, I might as well be wearing aneon sign that says,Less Than.

My heart races as I weave through the crowd. Guestslounge around circular tables draped in ivory linens and festooned with flowers,their laughter too loud, their gestures exaggerated, and their conversationslaced with an effortless arrogance.

“Table five, girl. Move it,” barks my supervisor, a wiryman with a permanent scowl.

“Yes, sir,” I mutter, my cheeks heating as I hoist thetray higher, the weight of my low-paying gig settling over me like a leadblanket.

Smile. Serve. Disappear. That’s the unspoken rule. Andyet, in a room full of power players, I feel the weight of too many eyes, someindifferent, some appraising.

And one pair, weightier than the rest, watches tooclosely.

This is the wedding reception of Rosita Venturi, thebeloved daughter of one of the city’s most powerful mafia families. It’s aspectacle of wealth, of power, of untouchable luxury, a demonstration ofprowess.

The bride glows in custom lace, laughter spilling fromher lips as she twirls with her handsome groom. We played together when I wasfive and she was six, but she won’t remember me. My father was wrapped up inthis world before he disappeared, and we moved away. A shiver skitters over myskin, raising the hair on my arms. Are the memories of the past rising to thesurface like oil on water, or is it fear?

There used to be four Venturi brothers. Now there arethree, and they seem to be everywhere. Tall, imposing, sinfully handsome, withpower emanating from them like a drugging scent.

One twirls his mother around the dance floor, his darkcurls tumbling over his forehead, hazel eyes animated, and full lips smilinglike it’s what they were created for. He’s discarded his jacket and tie androlled the cuffs of his white shirt, revealing brightly colored flame tattoosthat lick up his ropey forearms: the youngest, Alexis.

Another prowls the room's edges, his steel gray eyessuspiciously trailing over everyone, talking to brutish men stationed aroundthe perimeter like sentries. His dark hair is cropped shorter, practical, andhis black suit and shirt fit his muscular, looming frame like a second skin. Hemoves with panther-like grace and a fixed, almost mean stare: the middlebrother, Antonio.

But only one has noticed me.

Luca Venturi. The current boss of this family. Hispresence commands attention like a silent storm, powerful and dark. Well oversix feet and broad-shouldered, he’s a man built for war but draped in theelegance of a black suit so precisely tailored it looks like it was made toworship his body. The crisp fabric contrasts with the pale of his shirt, thesharp angles of his jaw, and the dark gleam of his slicked-back hair.

But it’s not just his appearance that unsettles me.

It’s his vivid blue, cold, piercing, unrelenting eyesthat strip away pretense and hold a weight I don’t understand but can feelpressing through my flesh and into my bones.

Tonight, they’re locked on me.

Does he recognize me? I don’t think so. The last time hesaw me, I had chubby cheeks and was wearing a party dress that was so pink andfluffy that it resembled cotton candy. I’d fallen in the sprawling Venturigardens, cutting my chin, and he’d scooped me up and pressed his shirt to myface to stem the bleeding. I was crying, but his unemotional demeanor quietedmy childish sorrow. I still remember how it felt to be carried high against hischest, the sharp, clean smell of his shirt, and the command in his voice as hetold me I’d be okay, like he could make it so just with his words.

A slow, deliberate awareness prickles down my spine. Itry to ignore it, brush it off like an itch I refuse to scratch, but each timeI pass his table, his stare lingers. Heavy. Intrusive. As if he owns me and iskeeping track of his possession.

I shouldn’t look at him.

I do, anyway.

For the fifth time that evening, our gazes collide andthe air between us shifts and thickens. My pulse jumps, betraying me, and Iforce myself to look away, shoving the feeling down. Luca's a guest at awedding—more than that, the host—and I’m a waitress. He’s a mafia prince turnedboss, a man who’s nearly double my age, and I’m nothing but a glorified kidwith baggage I can barely carry. Our worlds don’t touch.

But my skin still burns from his gaze.

I shouldn’t have come. It was a reckless, impulsivedecision. When Mama asked me about tonight’s job, I lied. I told her it was awedding, but not whose, knowing she’d warn me against stepping too close to thefire again. She’d remind me that this dark underworld has already burned usonce with its glittering surface excess and shady, ruthless players.

---