Page 21

The daughter of con artists, raised on secrets and lies. She knows the game and she plays it beautifully. She’s…
She's playing it right now as well, isn't she?
I'm not blind to the calculation behind her sudden appearance, the careful way she watches everything. She's here for a reason beyond dancing in my club.
The thought should anger me, should wake the ruthless boss who's built an empire by controlling every variable around him.
Instead, I find myself fascinated. Let her play her games. Let her think she's in control. In the end, it doesn't matter why she came.
She's not leaving.
CHAPTERFIVE
Ava
The buzzingof my phone drags me from sleep, harsh and insistent against the nightstand.
My first thought is that this isn't my nightstand. The smooth marble surface feels foreign under my fumbling fingers.
My second thought is that I'm not wearing anything.
And my third thought, as memories of last night flood back, isshit.
Stefano.
Stefano's arm is heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. In the dim light filtering through the expensive curtains, I can make out the tattoos trailing down his bicep—Italian script mixed with darker symbols of power.
Even in sleep, he radiates that dangerous energy that drew me in last night. That's still drawing me in if I'm being honest with myself.
Which I'm not. Can't be. Not when?—
My phone buzzes again. Tony's name flashes on the screen, along with the time. Almost four in the morning. My stomach drops before I even read the message.
>> Need pickup. @ Murphy's. 2 drunk 2 drive.
"Fuck," I mutter, then freeze as Stefano stirs behind me. The car. I'd let Tony take our piece of shit car because I thought he’d go to a friend's house to play video games.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Another text comes in.
>> Plz dont b mad. Rly need help.
I ease out from under Stefano's arm, trying to ignore how much my body protests the loss of his warmth.
My dress from last night is somewhere...there…draped over what looks like a genuine Eames chair. Because of course, Stefano has the kind of penthouse where you casually toss clothes onto furniture worth more than my entire wardrobe.
My hands shake slightly as I pull the dress on, and I tell myself it's just the lingering effects of the wine. Not the memory of Stefano's fingers tracing every inch of my skin. Not the guilt churning in my stomach as I think about the Fioris waiting for my report.
Not the way my heart clenches when I glance back at him, dark hair mussed against white sheets, looking more vulnerable than a man like him has any right to.
"Going somewhere?"
His voice, rough with sleep, freezes me mid-step. I turn slowly, finding him propped up on one elbow, sheet riding low on his hips. The sight does things to my insides that I really don't need right now.
"Tony…my brother, needs pickup," I say, aiming for casual despite how my pulse races. "He's at Murphy's."
"The dive bar on Halsted?" Stefano's eyes sharpen, all traces of sleep vanishing. "It's not a safe neighborhood at this hour."