Page 3 of Bound Vows (Empire City Syndicate #3)

Maya

Diamonds lie almost as well as the people who wear them, which makes charity galas the perfect hunting ground for hypocrites with deep pockets.

I lean against the marble bar, watching New York’s elite perform their annual ritual of throwing money at problems they helped create.

The ballroom sparkles with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns while waiters glide between guests carrying trays of champagne and caviar-topped everything.

Everyone here has blood on their hands; they just pay other people to wash it off.

“Another Cristal, Miss Mastroni?” The bartender appears with a fresh glass before I can answer, even though it took me twenty minutes to nurse the last one.

“Why not.” I accept the champagne and take a delicate sip, playing my role as the sophisticated socialite who doesn’t have three knives strapped to her body. The beaded Valentino gown I wear creates the perfect illusion of elegance, wealth, and innocence.

Max insisted that I attend tonight’s Children’s Hospital fundraiser, claiming the family needs to maintain our legitimate business facade.

What he really meant is that potential investors get nervous when crime families stop pretending to care about society.

Nothing says “we’re not laundering money” like a tax-deductible donation to sick children.

The crowd flows around me in predictable patterns, with politicians glad-handing potential donors, society wives comparing jewelry, and businessmen making deals they’ll regret in the morning. I memorize faces and connections out of habit, filing away information that might prove useful later.

“You look bored,” a voice observes from behind me.

I turn to find a man watching me with the kind of attention that makes my skin prickle with warning.

He’s tall—easily six-foot-four—with platinum blond hair styled in a way that screams European money.

His suit is tailored perfectly, and it emphasizes his broad shoulders and lean build.

Something about those muscles and that dangerous smile tell me he’s familiar with physical violence despite his polished appearance.

Ice-blue eyes meet mine with a heat that makes me step back instinctively.

There’s something predatory in those eyes, like he’s already decided I belong to him and is simply waiting for me to realize it.

A thin scar runs from his left temple to his jaw, too neat to be accidental and too visible to be hidden by makeup.

Not that he strikes me as the type to wear concealer.

And God help me, every rational instinct I possess is being drowned out by my body’s response to his presence.

He’s the kind of dangerous that makes smart women do stupid things, and I’m apparently no exception.

The way he fills out his suit should be illegal, and the way he’s looking at me makes heat pool low in my stomach despite every warning bell in my head.

“Should I be entertained?” I counter, raising my champagne glass in a mock salute. “Watching rich people pretend to have souls is my favorite pastime.”

His laugh is deep and genuinely amused, which surprises me. Most men at these events expect me to simper and agree with everything they say.

“Andre.” He extends his hand with old-world courtesy. “And you’re Maya Mastroni, though I suspect you’re tired of people recognizing you.”

I accept his handshake and regret it immediately. His grip is commanding and confident, calloused in ways that suggest he’s more than just a trust fund baby playing dress-up. When he doesn’t release my hand, I tug gently, and he lets go with obvious reluctance.

“Guilty as charged.” I study his face for clues about his identity. His accent is faint but definitely European. Russian, maybe, though he’s spent time perfecting his English. “Should I know you, Andre?”

“We haven’t been formally introduced, but your reputation precedes you.” His smile reveals perfect teeth that somehow make him look more dangerous rather than less. “The stories about your… skills… are fascinating.”

Alarms clang in my head. Nobody talks about my “skills” at charity galas unless they’re fishing for information.

“I have many skills,” I reply carefully. “Perhaps you could be more specific.”

“Your knife work, for instance. I hear you’re quite… artistic… with blades.”

My blood turns to ice. Three people in this room should know about my weapon preferences: Max, Vincent, and the bartender who’s probably been briefed on my security requirements. Andre isn’t any of those people.

“I think you have me confused with someone else.” I set my champagne on the bar and shift my weight, positioning myself for quick movement. “I’m just a boring socialite who writes checks to charity.”

“Of course. My mistake.” Andre signals the bartender, who appears with two glasses of something that isn’t champagne. “Shall we start over? I’m Andre, and I’m very pleased to meet the most interesting woman in the room.”

He offers me one of the glasses, and I notice his fingers are long and elegant like a pianist’s. Or a surgeon’s. The kind of hands that could be gentle or deadly, depending on the situation.

“What makes you think I’m interesting?”

“You’ve been standing alone for thirty minutes, rejecting every man who’s approached you, and watching the crowd like you’re planning their funeral arrangements.” Andre sips his drink, and I catch a whiff of expensive vodka. “Either you’re bored out of your mind, or you’re working.”

“Working?”

“Gathering intelligence. Taking note of threats. Planning escape routes.” His eyes never leave mine, even when he adds, “The kind of work that requires someone with your particular background.”

Whoever this man is, he shouldn’t know a damn thing about my background. This conversation needs to end before someone overhears details that could compromise my family’s operations. I start to step away, but Andre moves to block my path without making it obvious.

“Dance with me,” he offers, and it’s not quite a question.

“I don’t dance with strangers who know too much about my business.”

“Then it’s fortunate that I’m not a stranger.” Andre extends his hand again, and this time, I notice a ring on his pinky finger—gold, with a design that looks Russian. “One dance, Maya. What could happen in three minutes?”

Everything in my brain screams that this is a terrible idea.

Never mind the fact that my family is being hunted by an unknown Russian threat, Andre knows too much, and he carries himself like someone accustomed to getting what he wants, through force if necessary.

Dancing with him would be like waltzing with a cobra—beautiful, hypnotic, and potentially fatal.

But there’s something magnetic about his confidence and the way he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room worth his attention. When was the last time someone looked at me and saw something other than Max Mastroni’s dangerous little sister?

“One dance,” I agree, placing my hand in his. “But if you step on my toes, I’ll break your foot.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Andre leads me onto the dance floor as the orchestra begins a waltz that’s older than both of us combined.

Other couples move in predictable patterns around us, but I barely notice them.

Andre’s hand settles on my waist with possessive familiarity, and when he pulls me closer than propriety allows, I don’t object.

He moves like he was born for this. Every step is perfectly timed, and every turn is executed gracefully. When he spins me away, I feel momentarily bereft of his body heat. When he pulls me back, I resist the urge to melt against his chest.

I don’t know what the hell has gotten into me, but whatever it is, I’m powerless to resist it.

“You’re full of surprises,” I comment, trying to maintain some semblance of control over the situation.

“You have no idea.” Andre’s thumb traces small circles against my lower back, and heat spreads through my body in response. “Tell me, what brings Maya Mastroni to a children’s charity gala? Surely, you have more interesting ways to spend your evening.”

“Family obligations. My brother thinks visible philanthropy makes us look legitimate.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think rich people’s guilt money won’t fix the problems they created.” I let him guide me through another turn, noting how other dancers automatically give us space. “But it pays for hospital equipment, so I suppose everyone wins.”

“Spoken like someone who understands the world’s true nature.” Andre’s voice drops to a whisper that makes me lean closer to hear him. “Most people prefer comfortable lies to uncomfortable truths.”

“And which do you prefer?”

“Truth. Always truth, no matter how brutal.”

Something in his tone makes me look up, but his face reveals nothing beyond polite interest. Still, I get the impression that we’re talking about more than philanthropy and social justice.

The music swells around us, and Andre takes advantage of the crescendo to pull me even closer.

Our bodies are pressed together now, and I can feel the solid muscle beneath his expensive suit.

He’s stronger than his elegant appearance suggests, and when his hand moves even lower to just above my bottom, I realize he could overpower me if he chose to.

“You smell like jasmine and danger,” Andre mumbles against my ear. “Intoxicating combination.”

I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I certainly hope so.”

The music slows, signaling the end of the waltz, but Andre doesn’t release me. Instead, his hand slides up my spine, and I shiver despite the heat in the crowded ballroom.

“Maya,” he says my name, and for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, my panties grow wetter by the second.

“Yes?” I breathe.

“You fascinate me.”

Before I can respond, Andre’s fingers brush against the nape of my neck with feather-light pressure. The touch sends electricity through my nervous system, but something else comes with it: a strange tingling sensation that spreads outward from the point of contact.

“What—” I start to ask, but the words feel thick and clumsy in my mouth.

Andre’s free hand moves to steady me as the ballroom begins to tilt at impossible angles. The faces around us blur into a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, and my legs suddenly feel like they’re made of water.

“Don’t fight it.” Andre’s voice sounds as if it’s coming from the bottom of a well. “This will be much easier if you don’t fight it.”

I try to pull away from him, but my body won’t obey my commands. My vision narrows to a tunnel with Andre’s blue eyes at the center, and even they’re starting to fade around the edges.

“You drugged me,” I manage to say, even as my tongue feels three times its normal size.

“A mild sedative. Nothing permanent.” Andre’s arm tightens around my waist, supporting my weight as my knees buckle. “We need to have a conversation, Maya, and you wouldn’t have come willingly.”

The ballroom spins lazily around me, and I’m vaguely aware of other dancers moving away from us. Someone laughs nearby, probably assuming I’ve had too much champagne. If only they knew.

“My brother?—”

“Will receive word that you felt ill and left early.” Andre moves us toward the edge of the dance floor. His movements are so smooth that anyone watching would think he’s simply escorting his tipsy dance partner to somewhere she can sit down. “Don’t worry. This won’t hurt.”

Two men in expensive suits appear at Andre’s shoulders, flanking us as we leave the dance floor. They look like security or bodyguards, but their positioning is too tactical for civilian protection. These men are soldiers, and they’re here to ensure I don’t cause problems.

“Sleep now, Maya,” Andre urges as the world fades to black around the edges. “When you wake up, we’ll discuss your future.”