Page 2 of Auctioned To Her Dad's Mafia Enemies

But the pull was too strong. After what happened beforewe left home, the need to see these people, the ghosts of my past, the remnantsof a life that once belonged to me, was impossible to resist. Even from thefringes, watching from the outside, I felt something I haven’t in years: atether to something real.

The life I’ve lived for over a decade has never fitquite right. It’s like wearing a borrowed coat, too big in some places, tootight in others, and constantly uncomfortable, no matter how much I try toadjust. But here, even in the shadows, I feel less like an imposter. Less likea woman pretending to be someone else.

Here, I remember who I was.

AemeliaLambretti. Mafiaprincess. Daughter of a powerful man with enough wealth and power to keep uscomfortable.

Nothing like the girl I am now.

And even though Luca’s gaze is as heavy as his palm onmy skin, it’s nothing compared to the fear I felt back in Maryland when I wasbeing watched.

I exhale a shaky breath, pushing away those memories andshifting my focus to the guests. A polished woman in her forties gesturessharply at her empty flute, her red lipstick smeared just enough to make herlook like she’s baring her teeth. I lower my tray so she can grab a freshglass, her bony fingers flashing with rings.

I reach for the empty glass, my hands trembling as Iplace it on the tray, desperately trying not to overturn the whole thing. Ikeep my face neutral, but inside, I think:Seriously?I’m doing my best here. It’s not like your glass is going to die of thirst.

And yet, even as I move away, the heat of Luca’s starenever wavers.

I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me. I feel aslow burn spreading across my skin like fingers tracing my flesh. Three Venturibrothers exist in this world, each one striking in their own right. But Luca?He stands apart in his intensity.

The scar bisecting his cheek is legendary; a sharp,deliberate cut that slices through his left brow and traces a line down hisface, just above his jawline. It should make him ugly. It doesn’t. He wears itlike women wear diamonds. Not a flaw, but an enhancement. A badge of deadlyintent. A mark of survival.

I force myself to move, ignoring how he makes me feellike a moon caught in his gravitational pull. I have bills to pay.Responsibilities. A life that has nothing to do with Luca Venturi or theshadows that follow his family.

Yet my traitorous body betrays me once more because whenour eyes meet again—when that sharp, unreadable stare pins me in place—mystomach flips.

I look away.

I keep serving.

I tell myself it means nothing.

He doesn’t recognize me. It’s impossible. And if he did,he’d remember the silly little girl whose pigtails he used to pull and whosesnotty nose he once wiped with his pristine white monogrammed handkerchief.Nothing more.

It’s hard to determine if the awareness I’m feeling isfear or arousal. My responses to both are the same. I know fear well, butarousal, not so much.

My pulse quickens as I hurry back to the kitchen. Theclatter of pans and the chefs’ sharp voices offer a strange relief, groundingme in the grind and chaos of my everyday world. I lean against the counter tocatch my breath.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Tania, one of theother waitresses, says. She’s scraping the remnants of a chocolate soufflé intothe trash, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

“I think a ghost would be less intimidating,” I mutter,trying to laugh it off.

Tania raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Tall, dark, andbroody? There’s a Roman legion of them out there, so you’ll have to narrow itdown.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, feeling my cheeksheat.

Tania smirked. “Suit yourself. But if one of thoseVenturi guys has his sights set on you, I’d run. Or... don’t.” She winks andsaunters off, leaving me flustered. Before I’m shouted at again, I refill mytray and head back into the ballroom.

Distracted by my thoughts, I don’t notice the napkin onthe floor, which disturbs my balance. A champagne flute teeters on my tray, thegolden liquid sloshing dangerously close to the edge. My breath catches. No,no, no—

The glass falls.

It shatters against the marble floor, the sound tooloud, too sharp, drawing too much attention.

A ripple of silence spreads through the nearest tables.Murmurs. Gasps. My stomach turns to stone.

“Careful, darling,” comes a sharp voice. Table fiveagain. The woman’s tone is dripping with condescension, her lips curling withbarely contained amusement. “That flute cost more than your rent.”

Heat rushes up my neck, humiliation licking my skin. Idrop to my knees, hands shaking as I reach for the broken shards.

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