Page 2 of Auctioned Innocence
I descend the sweeping staircase.
Already the foyer is filling with men in expensive suits, the air heavy with cologne and cigar smoke.
I spot Marco first, holding court near the bar with a group of associates.
His face lights up when he sees me, breaking away to press a kiss to my cheek.
“There’s my beautiful sister,” he says, but his eyes are scanning the crowd behind me, always alert.
Always protective.
“I was starting to think you were going to hide upstairs all night.”
“And miss one of Mom and Dad’s famous dinner parties? Never.”
I try to keep my voice light.
Even as I assess the room, my gaze searches for a particular tall frame, those broad shoulders, that dark hair…
Then I see him.
Dante stands with my father near the fireplace, his powerful frame making even the massive marble mantle seem small in comparison.
The flames cast shadows across the planes of his face, highlighting those knife-blade cheekbones.
As if sensing my gaze, he glances over.
Our eyes lock.
I inhale, the room seeming to tilt slightly on its axis.
Dante’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in those storm-grey eyes.
Something I can’t put my finger on.
Then nothing as he turns back to my father, saying something that makes the older men around them laugh.
I exhale.
“Control yourself,tesoro,” a smooth voice murmurs in my ear. “Your feelings are written all over your face.”
I startle, turning to find Uncle Lorenzo beside me, immaculate in a custom suit, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled.
His eyes, sharp as ever, miss nothing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, accepting a glass of sparkling water from a passing server while mentally cursing myself.
I’ve maintained covers under interrogation, kept my composure while disarming security systems with seconds to spare, yet here I am, broadcasting emotions like an amateur.
Heat creeps up my neck.
Lorenzo’s smile is knowing. “Of course not. Just as you don’t know why your brother keeps the best enforcer Mario DeLuca ever had so distant from you.”
He sips his whiskey, gaze flicking between me and Dante. “Men like Moretti…” Lorenzo pauses, choosing his words carefully. “They’re not for girls like you,tesoro. Your father—he’d never… Well, you understand.”
The casual dismissal stings more than it should. “I’m not delicate, Uncle.” My voice is sharper than intended. “I’ve proven that enough times.”
“No,” he concedes, studying me with a new intensity that makes me uneasy. “I suppose you’re not.”
