Page 64 of Savage Enemy

“Correction, I haven’t had anywhere near enough.”

I grabbed a full flute from a server’s passing tray.

“Know what, Santo? I’ve found my mission for tonight.”

He gazed out over the crowd.

“Your mission is to impress the Russians. Whenever the assholes bother to show up.”

“No, that’s Saul’sjob. Let’s be honest, this deal has little to do with me. I’m just the cherry on top. Well,”—I snorted again—“maybe not the cherry anymore.”

Santo’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Gross.”

“Agreed. But back to my point, little brother, my goal for the night is to break you.”

He looked down at me and squinted.

“Break me? What the hell did I ever do to you? Well, other than the obvious.”

I took a gulp of champagne.

“Kidnapping me, you mean? You’re always so stern and grumpy, like you tattooed a permanent scowl on your face with all the other ink. And when something funny happens, you won’t even let yourself laugh. So yes, I’m going to break you tonight. I’m going to make you laugh.”

“Great life goals.” He rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that.”

What the hell else did I have to do anyway?

I smiled as he offered me his arm and led me around the ballroom, stopping here and there to make small talk when someone approached.

God, I’d missed him so much. My childhood might have been horrible, but the moments that had made it bearable, at the very least, included being with Marco and Santo. Time with them more than made up for having none with Aris.

My heart ached. I hated having my brothers back in my life, even by force, because I would only lose them again.

It was almost as cruel as taking me from my son, a reminder that few people in my life genuinely cared about me. It would only hurt that much more when the Russians took me away.

But I pushed the depressing thoughts away and refocused on the evening with Santo, dreading the moment those sick fucks showed up, but refusing to let it destroy the time I had left with my brother.

I’d almost started to enjoy myself, to forget about the reason we were there—until I gazed across the ballroom and saw her.

Benedetta Capaldo.

In Chicago.

Right there in front of me.

And she looked stunning in her floor-length silver gown, her caramel-blonde hair perfectly piled on top of her head to show off the gorgeous diamonds dripping from her ears.

As she lifted her hand to adjust her mask, an even larger diamond flashed brilliantly from her finger.

I squeezed my eyelids shut for a second.

No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

When I opened my eyes, a tall man in a beautifully custom-tailored tuxedo and a black mask moved closer to Benedetta. He rested his hand on her lower back.

Nausea overwhelmed me. Vomit burned my throat.

Even with the mask, I would recognize this man anywhere.

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