The ballroom of the Grand Plaza Hotel smelled of expensive perfume and the damp wool of coats from the autumn rain outside.

I stood near the towering marble pillars, my fingers gripping the cold stem of an untouched champagne glass.

Across the room, Marcus was speaking to the city’s deputy mayor.

His hand rested casually on his lapel, but his eyes were constantly scanning the crowd.

He was looking for me.

I stepped backward, my heels clicking softly against the polished stone floor.

If Marcus caught me tonight, I knew I would not make it back to my apartment.

“There you are,” a voice whispered from directly behind me.

I turned quickly, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Marcus had bypassed the crowd, his smile tight and practiced for the public.

“We are leaving, Arya,” he said, reaching out and grabbing my wrist.

His grip was cold, hard, and unyielding.

“Let go of me, Marcus,” I said, keeping my voice low so the passing guests wouldn’t hear.

“Don’t make a scene,” he murmured, pulling me toward the heavy velvet drapes of the side exit. “You know what happens when you embarrass me.”

I looked around the crowded room in absolute panic.

That was when I spotted Damiano Ricci.

He sat in a semi-private leather booth in the VIP section, surrounded by three men in dark suits.

Everyone in the city knew who Damiano was.

He was the shadow that ran the docks, the local unions, and the high-rises.

I wrenched my arm free from Marcus’s grip with a sudden, desperate jerk.

I ran toward Damiano’s table before Marcus could grab me again.

Marcus called my name, his voice sharp with sudden anger.

Before Damiano’s guards could step forward to block me, I reached the table.

Damiano looked up, his dark eyes cool, assessing, and entirely calm.

I didn’t think about the consequences.

I leaned down, took his face in my hands, and pressed my lips to his.

His lips were firm and tasted of expensive scotch.

For a second, his entire body went rigid.

Then, his hand wrapped around my waist, pulling me down onto his lap.