Page 3 of Ruined By Blood
My fingers grip my glass tighter as the bartender straightens his posture. Footsteps approach—unhurried, confident. The scent of expensive cologne reaches me, something woodsy with hints of amber and spice. Not overpowering like the cloying fragrances my father's associates prefer.
Without turning my head, I'm aware of his presence settling at the bar, several seats away. The bartender moves immediately to serve him, abandoning other customers.
"Mr. Feretti, good evening," he says, voice pitched with respect. "The usual?"
I don't hear the response, but the bartender nods and begins preparing something with practiced efficiency.
My pulse quickens despite myself. Not from fear—at least, not entirely. This isn't the same dread that accompanies my father's "business associates." This is different, unfamiliar.
I stare at the ice melting in my drink, hyperaware of every sound.
The skin at the nape of my neck prickles. He's looking at me.
I don't move. I've learned the art of invisibility, of making myself small and unnoticeable.
I fight the urge to glance his way, fixing my attention on the ripples in my drink as I swirl the glass slowly.
"Red isn't your color."
The voice—low, commanding. I continue staring at my drink, assuming he's speaking to someone else. No one speaks to me unless they want something, and this man doesn't know me.
The silence stretches. Something about it feels weighted, expectant.
I risk a glance around. No one stands nearby except the bartender, who's found something fascinating to clean at the far end of the bar.
"I said, red isn't your color."
This time I look up, meeting dark eyes that study me with unsettling intensity. The man—Enzo Feretti—sits three stools away, an untouched drink before him. He wears a black suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. Tattoos peek from beneath his collar, disappearing under expensive fabric.
"Are you speaking to me?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
His mouth quirks slightly at one corner—not quite a smile. "Do you see anyone else wearing a dress they clearly hate?"
Heat rushes to my face. I drop my gaze back to my drink, fingers tightening around the cool glass. "I don't hate it." The lie tastes bitter.
"You haven't stopped fidgeting with it since you walked in." He takes a sip from his glass, eyes never leaving my face. "And you keep your shoulders hunched like you're trying to disappear inside it."
My spine stiffens automatically. How long has he been watching me?
"Blue would suit you better." He says this matter-of-factly, as though discussing the weather. "Something soft. Not this... costume."
Istudy her while I wait for her response, taking inventory of the woman who's caught my attention.
Her eyes are the first thing that captivate me—icy blue. They dart nervously around the room, never settling in one place too long. Like prey sensing a predator nearby.
The dress is wrong for her. Too tight across her slender shoulders, too revealing for someone who clearly wants to disappear. The fabric highlights curves she's trying to hide, making her a target in a room full of hungry wolves. Red marks her as merchandise. Available. For sale to the highest bidder.
Her hands tell a different story—delicate but strong, fingers twisting the napkin beneath her untouched drink. Manicured nails painted a soft pink.
Dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, one strand caught against her neck where a pulse beats rapidly. She's afraid. Of me? Of someone else? Both, probably.
She parts her lips to speak, voice barely audible over the casino noise. "I don't know what?—"
A hand emerges from the crowd, wrapping possessively around her waist. The touch makes her stiffen, though she tries to hide her reaction.
"There you are, querida. I've been looking everywhere."
A man appears—mid-fifties, Cuban accent, gaudy Rolex that screams new money.
