Page 8 of The Mafia Heir's Obsession

“Headley can’t come,” Viv pouts as we push past the line of people and the indifferent bouncer. “But you’re here. And I’m so glad. I thought Headley was gonna propose, but…”

“This is not exactly prime proposal space, V,” I say.

She smiles, giving bouncer guy a flirty side-eye before turning back to me. “True. Come and dance!”

“Viviana, we really need to get home, now.”

“No way—it’s party time. You never get out. Please, I promise we won’t stay late. Dance with me…” she pleads.

Shit, shit. I risk a look around. The crowd is thick and everyone’s in a mask. If I try to drag her away, I’d be putting her in danger. Best to stick around five minutes and then leave on my own.

I take a deep breath. “In a minute. I need a drink.”

“Not too much,” she shouts over the music, “the drugs are strong.”

Viv grabs one of her friends and disappears into the dancing crowd and I slide the pill out of my mouth and flick it onto the floor.

There are two levels here—the main floor with a dance area and overcrowded bar, and a darker, louder mezzanine that’s less packed. I head to the mezzanine bar, order a doubleJack and Coke, and settle into a corner by the wall while checking the news feeds and neighborhood apps on my phone for any details about what… and who… the hell I just escaped.

There’s a brief mention of a shootout that makes my heart squeeze hard, though details are scarce—just enough to let me know I might be sitting on some potential evidence, some information. I’d never act on it, though. I’m not about to risk my life, and going to the cops would betray my father.

One day, I promise myself, I’m going to get out of this city and away from my family and their legacy. I adore them more than anything but I can’t live this life. I need my freedom to live without the noose of my last name choking the life out of me.

I try to center myself in this small corner of the bar when in my periphery, I see someone else is there—someone with a drink, completely still, his gaze fixed on me. He smells of leather and honey with a hint of cigarette smoke, an erotic scent that shouldn’t affect me but does all the same. Even in this crowded space, I can catch his scent—and if I can, he’s uncomfortably close.

Slowly, I lift my eyes. A man with unruly black curls in need of a trim, a strong jaw flecked with scruff, full lips, and an intense stare behind a black mask similar to mine sits right there, within touching distance. He’s tall and lean, dressed entirely in black, and drop-dead gorgeous from what I can tell.

There’s something familiar about him that I can’t quite place, and my thoughts flicker back to the man who shot and killed John—the man who grabbed and terrorized me. He wasn’t dressed like this, though. His clothes were casual, nondescript, whereas this man… is anything but.

Still… I never looked too closely at his face. It felt less threatening if I couldn’t truly identify him. All I cared about was getting free—not my father or the power he wields, but simple survival. And yet this man sends a shiver down my spine.

The guy gets up and walks over to me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I furrow my brow. There’s a trace of something in his accent, it’s like a musical lilt that curls around me like a low note from a violin.

I force myself to breathe. “No, thanks,” I reply.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack and Coke?” he offers, his words framed almost as a question, though clearly they’re not. My insides wobble. His dark, masked eyes glint with something that’s not playful—no hint of sexy humor, just cold ruthlessness.

I shiver. “I’m good.” Ignoring me, he holds out his free hand across the bar. A bartender promptly pushes a glass into his hand, and he places it in front of me. I grip my own drink tightly.

Why is he still here?

Every instinct screams for me to run.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Why? Did I give you the impression that I care aboutyours?” I say, my voice calm and even despite my pulse damn near choking me. “Because, news flash. I don’t.”

“I don’t believe that,” he says, making no move to touch me—though somehow it feels as if his hand might slide between my thighs. “Tell me, do you like being hunted?”

A cold shiver and a streak of heat flare in me, making my body respond despite the apprehension. “N-no.”

“Or maybe you don’t know?” he presses, his tone void of a smile. This isn’t some pickup line. It feels like an intrusion, raw and unyielding.

“Name?” he repeats.

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