Page 7 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

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CASSIA

After I finished the wire transfer and Ian left, I spent three days worrying. Wondering if maybe he was dead somewhere in an alley. Finally, I received a text that everything was good, right on time for my night out with Rose. At least I could enjoy myself without anxiety tightening my chest.

I push out of my apartment, breathing in the warm summer air and trying not to choke on the exhaust. The city is great, the pollution? Not so much.

Rose is leaning on the limo she got for the ride over to the gala she’s dragging me to, but she straightens when she sees me, eyes bugging. “Ho-ly shit, Cassia!”

She’s wearing a pretty midnight blue Medusa ’95 draped dress that molds to her curvy form.

If anyone deserves a holy shit , it’s her.

Rose’s brunette hair is swept back into a simple chignon, a few strands hanging loose.

Her eyeshadow brings out the green in her hazel eyes, and she’s wearing a simple nude lipstick.

Her skin is perfectly moisturized, and with her flawless eyebrows and a touch of mascara, she looks like she belongs in designer clothes.

Me, on the other hand? I always feel like an imposter. “Yeah?”

The driver hops out of the car and rounds the extended length of the vehicle.

Rose’s head nearly falls off as she nods and takes my outfit in.

I stop beside her, eyeing my reflection.

The onyx leather of the dress peaks at the top of my hips, as if to say I’m thick and curvy and sexy as fuck .

The straps rest at the edges of my shoulders while the top cuts dangerously low over my size D boobs.

The black material pairs nicely with my dark red hair and looks great with smoky eyes and matte burgundy lip stain.

I look beautiful, I love my body, but.. .

“I’m still not sure I’ll fit in.” Not even with the designer cuff heels and matching clutch.

“Please, you look amazing. I’d hit it.” She gestures to the driver. “This is Andy.”

“Hey.” I wave to him and slide into the car, my heart jumping at the sight of Remy. “Jesus Christ!”

“I’m not that ugly,” he grumbles.

Rose sighs and takes her place beside me. “That’s a face only a mother would love,” she teases.

Remy flips her off. “Fuck you, princess.”

“Watch it,” she warns him. “Or I might tell Analise?—”

“I swear to god, Rose. Dare won’t even be able to save you?—”

I pointedly clear my throat. “Okay, children. Let’s take a deep breath and apologize.”

“He started it,” Rose says, crossing her arms.

Remy mimics her, and it might be the funniest shit I’ve ever seen, coming from the six-foot-something solid stack of muscle who’s usually so serious about his job.

If this is what he’s like behind bulletproof glass, I’d pay to see him outside of work, but I’m thinking mercenaries-turned-bodyguards don’t usually have downtime.

I grab a flute of champagne. “Should we cheers?”

“Absolutely, yes.” Rose snatches a glass of her own. “What are we cheers-ing?”

“To this dress. Seriously, it’s amazing.

Thank you.” I still think it was too much, but I learned a long time ago not to tell Rose she shouldn’t have.

If I did, she’d walk me through a ten-slide PowerPoint on all the reasons she should, and I’d have to apologize for apologizing, which would only lead to another lecture from my very loving and sometimes terrifying bestie.

“Pfft. Thank you for coming with me. I know how much you hate these things.”

With recent changes in their business, there’s been speculation of trouble in the conglomerate Rose and her husband operate together.

As stupid as it sounds, going to the fancy galas and flaunting is one of the best ways to shut people up.

It would be better if Dare was here, but he had business to attend to.

Although I hate galas...and most humans, I’ll suffer through one night of socializing if it means she won’t have to face the scrutiny alone.

“I’m not nearly as menacing as your husband, but I promise to be scary if some asshole tries to say something.”

Rose’s eyes sparkle. “Maybe we can meet them under the bleachers and you can kick their ass.”

“Oh, come on! That was one time.”

Remy chuckles, but quickly clears his throat to cover up the sound, returning to brooding out of the window.

Rose arches an eyebrow. “Twice, actually. ”

“Are you sure? I know I introduced Monica to my fist?—”

“And Angela,” she says. “She threw your backpack in the trash.”

Oh, right. I roll my eyes. “Whatever, they both deserved it. Wait. Will they be there tonight?”

“No. They moved away, but Bethany and Ellen are coordinating it.”

I wrinkle my nose, drinking the fizzy sweet champagne.

Rose grimaces. “I know, but the gala is for a good cause, and if I don’t show up, there’s bound to be a fresh article in NYC Socialite tearing me apart. The downfall of Rose Richardson .” She blows out a hard breath.

That fucking gossip site. Rose may have come from money, but that doesn’t equate to acceptance among our peers.

If anything, being the daughter of one of the richest men in the world put a target on her back, and Rose was cornered and tormented more than a few times.

Our shared high school trauma is what brought us together. We’ve been best friends ever since.

“Well, there are three good things about tonight.”

She lifts an eyebrow in question.

“One, we’re going together.” I hold up one finger and tick off the next reasons. “Two, we both look hot as hell. Right, Remy?”

Remy glares at me in warning. We all know what would happen if Dare ever caught wind of Remy referring to Rose as hot.

I smirk and raise the third finger. “And there will be an open bar.” I pause and shoot a worried glance at Rose. “There will be alcohol, right?” If I risk running into Bethany and Ellen? I’ll need a cocktail.

“What kind of friend do you think I am? Of course, there will be alcohol. ”

We both giggle. Remy eyes us like we’re nuts, and the tension that’s nestled between my shoulders starts to fade away.

While this whole gala thing is my idea of a terrible time, with Rose, I might actually have fun.

She links her fingers with mine, clinking her champagne flute against mine. “I love you.”

The unexpected touch steals my breath, but I smile and pretend like my body isn’t craving a hug. I don’t want to make it weird. Without an immediate family, it’s been a long time since I’ve had one. The hollow in my chest aches. It’s weird how much I’ve started to long for physical affection.

Remy’s eyes burn into the side of my face. I glance at him, surprised to find understanding in his guarded gaze. I never expected to have much in common with Remy. They don’t give out hugs in his line of business, though. Maybe we’re both touch starved.

“Oh, Dare reserved us seats at Mace’s table,” Rose murmurs, glancing at her phone.

My stomach drops, but Remy is the only one who catches the dread flashing across my face. The last thing I want to do is spend time with Mace.

The event security checking everyone in pats me and Rose down, gesturing us through and moving to Remy.

The bodyguard narrows his eyes. “No.”

The one, harsh word stops the security guard in his tracks. The young guy, who’s probably only twenty, glances at the attendant, whose gaze flicks between Rose and Remy.

“He’s with me,” Rose explains.

Not much more needs to be said. Rose Richardson, wife of the Beast of NYC, gets to bend all sorts of rules because they don’t want to cross Dare.

“Of course,” the attendant says, gesturing to the security guard. “Let him through.”

Sometimes I’m jealous of Rose. What’s a woman have to do to find a scary husband who loves you more than breathing?

Remy adjusts his suit jacket, his biceps threatening to rip the seams. He’s a big guy. The security guard smartly gives him a wide berth as we head inside.

The gala’s theme is NYC NightLife, hence the mini dresses Rose picked out, but the decorations border on garish.

It’s almost like two designers got into a fight over design concepts and decided to throw them both together.

A red carpet stretches out in front of us, leading to the dance floor, which is lit by various shades of strobing lights.

More than a few people stand around tables, draped in starched white cloths, glaring at the DJ as he throws on a bass-heavy song.

My eyebrows rise. Someone is going to get fired.

Rose glances at me, amusement shimmering in her eyes. “It’s chaos.”

Right as she says it, a server passes by with hors d’oeuvres that definitely don’t fit with whatever is happening here.

“Escargot at a rave? Why didn’t I think of that?” Another tray filled with champagne passes by, and I grab two flutes. “We’re way too sober for this.”

Laughing, Rose leads me toward our table, which is situated right on the edge of the dance floor. I glance around, eyeing NYC’s elite and wondering if they were all born with sticks up their asses, or if that’s a right of passage. A confirmation, of sorts.

“I hate this shit,” Remy grumbles, taking the seat on one side of the table. Rose and I take the chairs on the other side, sipping the sweet, effervescent drink. My nose wrinkles. Usually I prefer wine, but a free drink is a free drink.

When two women storm toward each other through the tables, I nudge Rose, tipping my head in their direction. Bethany Whitting and Ellen Vorhess, two particularly terrible humans, stop and glare at one another. Ellen points at Bethany, and Bethany slaps her hand away. I gasp.

Rose clutches my arm. “Oh my God. We’re only five minutes in, and this is already the best gala I’ve ever been to.”

That’s pretty sad, considering she’s been to a lot, but normally, I think these things are pretty lame.

“It’s a total disaster,” I agree, eyes widening when Bethany starts to screech.

“It’s like watching a documentary about wild animals,” a deep, rumbling voice murmurs.

I scowl at Mace as he drops into the seat beside me and casually slings his arm over the back of my chair. Tonight, he’s dropped the suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his black button-up shirt, baring only some of his tattoos.

Remy and Mace exchange nods of acknowledgement, the bodyguard’s eyes hard and dark. Remy is no saint. He’s probably killed before, but at least he makes no attempt to hide his rough edges. Mace, on the other hand... I eye the man.

I can’t help feeling like I have a front-row seat to a performance .

What sort of secrets is he hiding?

“Hey,” Rose greets him. He’s best friends with her husband, which means I have to suffer through his presence more than I’d like.

“Hey, Rose.” Mace smiles at her before sliding his gaze in my direction. “Cassia.” His eyes slowly trace down my body, darkening as they take in the curve of my hips and my exposed thighs before they move back to meet mine. “Nice dress.”

Since I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not, I don’t bother responding.

I sip my champagne, savoring the apricot and peach flavors, and focus on the fight unfolding in front of us.

Even as I ignore him, I’m keenly aware of his arm right behind me as he and Rose talk about some business venture. Someone calls Rose’s name.

And so it begins.

She glances at me in question. She won’t leave me if I ask her to stay, but I’m not going to be that needy when she’s here to show everyone that her company is as strong as ever.

“I’ll order drinks. Gin gimlet?”

She nods. “You know me well.” She looks at Mace. “Be nice to my friend.”

He chuckles, and the sound brushes along my spine. “I’m always nice to your friend.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I promise I won’t be long.” Remy goes with her, his eyes scanning for threats as they move through the crowd. My sense of security leaves with Rose’s departure.

Even though I pretend he doesn’t exist as I place our drink order with one of the servers, all of my attention goes to the man beside me. How does he take up so much space ?

“You’re ignoring me again,” he muses, fingers brushing over my shoulder.

My skin tingles. That same longing from before awakens, my body too touch starved to realize I’d rather have any other person touching me. I shift forward and his fingers fall away. “Maybe I don’t have anything to say.”

Mace leans into my space, his vetiver cologne twining around me. “Do you want to tell me what the fuck you were doing in a capo’s bank account?”

Lines cut across my forehead. “Excuse me?”

Navy blue eyes boring into mine, he lifts an eyebrow. “You know what I’m talking about. A hundred grand?”

My stomach drops. How does he know about the wire transfer?

But, wait, a capo’s bank account? Motherfucker.

I never should have helped Ian. It took a while to get past the firewall and access controls, but once I was able to direct the verification codes to a burner phone, the rest was easy.

It was clean. How does Mace know it was me?

Reading the question on my face, Mace sighs. “I know what your work looks like. Does the name Luca Marino sound familiar?”

Keeping my face relaxed, I shake my head. “No.” The lie is bitter on my tongue. That was the name on the bank account. Everything Mace and Ian have said clicks into place. My heart skips. Russians. Italians. Bratva versus mafia, and I’m in the middle. Goddammit.

Something dangerous blooms in Mace’s irises, those secrets hidden deep inside edging closer. “Don’t lie to me.”

Before I can respond, a man dripping in menace appears at the table. “They’re ready.” The guy’s harsh Bronx accent sends a ripple of gooseflesh down my arms.

The hard look on his face and the deadness inside his nearly black irises tell me he’s not an average man. Everyone knows that Rex Technologies is in bed with the mafia.

Mace glances at the guy, then back at me. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Swallowing a sip of the champagne, I make a vague noise in response, focusing on the dance floor as he gets up and follows the man through the crowd. I watch as they go, unease swimming in my gut.

“Here we are.” The server drops off the drinks, and I eye the scotch for a second before picking it up and tossing it back. As the alcohol burns my throat, I cough, regretting the snap decision, and chase it with a sip of my wine. Anything to stifle the anxiety fluttering in my chest.

What the fuck have I done?