The Valentino charity gala was a masterpiece of high-society pretense, but I had reached my limit. I stood tucked away in the deep shadows of the limestone terrace, completely hiding from the waitstaff. A server had just tried to pass me a silver platter featuring a celery-infused gazpacho topped with a poached quail egg. It was a culinary crime, and I refused to let it ruin my evening. I leaned back against the cool stone, smoothing the silk of my emerald-green designer gown. My dark chestnut hair was pinned up in elegant waves, and my green eyes scanned the perimeter out of pure habit. My father had taught me threat assessment before I could ride a bike, but right now, my only threat was a fashionable appetizer. I turned to slip deeper into the dimly lit conservatory, and slammed directly into a broad, immovable chest. My hand flew out, palms flat against expensive wool to steady myself. The impact barely register to him, but the sudden heat of his hands locking onto my waist sent a shockwave straight up my spine.
"Careful, principessa,"
a smooth, dark voice rumbled above me. I looked up, my eyes locking onto a face that looked like it had been carved from marble and shadow. He was tall—towering over my five-foot-two frame—with sharp, dangerous lines to his jaw and eyes that held the chilling stillness of a predator. He wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, but he didn't carry himself like the soft, corporate billionaires inside. He stood with the effortless, coiled tension of a man who knew exactly how to use a weapon.
"I am careful,"
I said, keeping my voice steady and refusing to step out of his grip just yet. I tilted my chin up, letting my vivid green eyes narrow.
"You just happened to be standing in my escape route."
His lips twitched into a slow, dangerous smile, his eyes dropping to the flush on my tanned skin before rising back to mine.
"An escape route? From a room full of people desperate to breathe the same air as Lisa Valentino?"
A chill ran down my neck. He knew exactly who I was. But as I looked at the subtle, expensive signet ring on his hand and the invisible authority he carried, the pieces clicked together in my mind. He wasn't a guest. He was legacy. The son of a rival, ruthless Don.
"I'm escaping the catering,"
I replied smoothly, leaning in just a fraction closer, matching his dangerous energy.
"They're serving quail eggs and celery inside. I'd rather face a firing squad."
The mystery man let out a low, rough laugh, his hands lingering on my waist just a beat too long before he slowly let go.
"Then it's a good thing I brought my own exits. I think you and I have a lot more in common than a hatred for bad food."