Camilla's fingers curled at my waist as we kissed. Slow, but hungry. The bass throbbing through the floor beneath us. The club closing in until there was nothing but heat, perfume and motion. Her mouth lingering against mine, teasing, familiar, a reminder of the nights when consequences had felt optional.
"Signorina Ricci."
A firm tap landed on my shoulder.
I broke away, breath uneven, the world snapping back into focus as I turned. Sergio stood there, posture rigid despite the chaos around us, clearing his throat before leaning closer so only I could hear him.
"There is a man who wants to see you," he said.
My gaze flicked instinctively toward the edge of the dance floor, where I had felt him watching. But the spot was empty now. Alex was gone.
I nodded once. "Where is he?"
"In the office. He's waiting."
"Okay," I said, already stepping back, then paused. Camilla was still moving to the music, unbothered and unapologetic. Radiant. Sergio's eyes followed her without permission.
Well. Might as well give my friend something to remember.
"Stay here," I added coolly. "Watch over her."
"Yes, Signorina."
I slipped away from the pulse of the dance floor, the bass still thrumming through my bones as I moved toward the shadowed edge of the club. The lights dimmed with every step, the air cooling just enough to clear my head. One of the guards fell into stride beside me, close enough that his voice didn't have to compete with the music.
"Signorina," he said quietly, his gaze flicking past me toward the crowd. "Is it wise to leave Donna Camilla alone with our new recruit?"
I slowed, then glanced back over my shoulder.
Camilla had already closed the distance between herself and Sergio. They were nearly the same height, with him just a few inches taller than her, even with her heels.
Her lips brushed his ear as she spoke, one hand resting lightly against his chest, her body moving to the music as if it belonged there. Sergio stood rigid, every muscle tight, eyes dark and fixed straight ahead, listening far too intently for a man meant to be on watch.
A corner of my mouth lifted.
"She's Signor Arturo's daughter," I said, unbothered. "If anything, I should be worried for him."
The guard gave a reluctant nod, though his attention lingered a second longer on the scene behind us before he followed my lead.
We turned away from the noise, toward a section of the VIP level hidden in plain sight. A narrow corridor disguised as part of the wall opened at my approach. The door blending seamlessly into the gold-trimmed panels. I stepped through without hesitation.
The music dulled behind us as the door shut, sealing away the heat of the club, along with whatever trouble Camilla was intent on starting.
The corridor beyond the VIP area narrowed, the pulse of music fading with each step. It was lined with private rooms with velvet-curtained doors and muted lights, where guests paid a premium for discretion. Laughter bled through the walls. Breathless murmurs and moans.
I ignored them all.
At the very end stood the office, belonging to the person who ran our club.
The door opened into a space that felt deliberately restrained. Not too big, but not too small either. With its dark wood paneling, a thick red carpet that softened every step. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one wall, tinted and elegant, faming the Sicilian coast below. The desk was oversized, polished to a dull gleam, flanked by low leather hairs meant to make visitors feel smaller than they are.
"Signorina Ricci."
The man behind the desk rose too quickly. Balding, thick through the middle, sweat already gathering at his temples despite the air-conditioning. He wore a black suit that strained at the buttons and extended his hand across his large desk like it might save him.
I looked at it. Then at him.
Without a word, I moved past the gesture and took the empty chair across from his desk, crossing my legs with deliberate ease.
"You said there was a man who wanted to see me," I said in Italian, my voice steady despite the irritation beginning to coil in my chest. I was supposed to be meeting Alex tonight.
The man's hand lingered uselessly at his side before he finally lowered himself back into his chair. He leaned into it, as though the posture along could grant him authority.
"Yes," he said, still in Italian. "He claimed he was from New York. Said you have something that belongs to him." A pause, deliberate. "And that he wants it back."
"Well then," I replied, carefully schooling my expression as a familiar dread settled low in my stomach, "where is he?"
The bald man parted his lips, but he never got the chance to answer.
The bathroom door adjacent to the desk opened.
"Thank god for private toilets," a voice said in flawless English, unmarked by any trace of an Italian accent. "If there's one thing I've always hated about clubs like these, it's the bathrooms."
For a split second, the world tilted.
My breath caught, sharp and involuntary.
Dario.
It couldn't be. Fuck.
Yet there he was, stepping into the light like a ghost who was supposed to stay dead.
"Now that my twin brother's dead," he said, chuckling as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience, "I get that reaction a lot."
I clamped my mouth shut.
What. The. Fuck.
He dropped into the chair beside me with infuriating ease, unbuttoning his suit as though this were a casual meeting between friends, not a resurrection.
"Heard you were about to be my sister-in-law when it happened," he continued in English, lounging back against his seat. "Tragic. Almost romantic."
He looked exactly like Dario, and yet, nothing like him at all.
Where Dario had been all sharp edges and restraint, this man was loose, fluid. Careless in a way that spoke of violence worn lightly. Dario's style had been immaculate, tailored to control. This one was rougher, with tattoos creeping up from beneath his collar, his hair buzzed close to the scalp, his build heavier than muscle, earned the hard way. The kind of body shaped by streets, not boardrooms.
Danger without discipline.
"Now that I've met you," he said, his gaze slow and unapologetic as it dragged from my heels to my face, "I can see why." A grin tugged at his mouth. "I'd risk getting my head blown off for you too, cara mia."
My patience snapped.
"What the fuck is this?" I bit out, the blade in my voice undisguised.
"He showed up at my club an hour ago, Signorina," the bald man cut in hurriedly, reverting to Italian. Sweat glistened along his hairline. "I didn't know who he was. He put a gun to my head." A beat. "I only listened because he looked exactly like the late Signor Bianchi."
"Well, I am Signor Bianchi," the man beside me said smoothly, in flawless Italian, "just the much more interesting version."
I didn't look away. Didn't even blink.
Because if Dario had been dangerous...this one was worse.