Page 51 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

She owed me that.

The blonde heiress shifts again, her palm smoothing across my chest like it’s her territory now.

I catch her wrist gently and pull it away, not unkind but not interested.

She blinks up at me, surprised.

I smile.

It never reaches my eyes.

I stand, straightening my jacket, brushing invisible dust from my sleeve.

The occupants of the booth murmur disappointment behind me, but I don’t look back.

I move through the club like I own it, because I do, or at least my name does.

Every bouncer steps aside, every staff member nods, every woman watches.

I make my way toward the back, toward the private staircase that leads to the mezzanine, where the real deals happen.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight, I just need quiet.

Upstairs, the music dulls to a hum behind the soundproof glass.

I pour myself another drink, neat this time.

I sink into the leather chair and let the city flicker beneath me.

Neon and smoke, movement and money.

All of it mine, none of it enough.

I lift the glass to my lips, but don’t drink.

Instead, I picture her again.

Gianna, standing on a balcony in crimson silk, eyes lit with that particular defiance that always made me want to press her against the nearest surface and see how long she could keep pretending I didn’t unravel her.

That mouth.

That mind.

That maddening need to stay three steps ahead of everyone, even me.

Especially me.

She’s gone, but here I am like a lovesick pup, still thinking about her like she’s a ghost I invited in.

The club pulses below, heat rising from the floor like a second heartbeat.

I toss the drink back, fire curling in my throat, and wait for it to burn her out.

The second woman is on my lap now, some dancer from Rome with high cheekbones and a name I didn’t bother remembering.

She’s laughing at something I haven’t said, her perfume clinging to the collar of my shirt like smoke.