Chapter 1 - Music moved through the floorboards and vibrated against the soles of Mave’s inexpensive, painfully tight shoes.
“Look at you,” Caroline whispered.
Her breath was warm and carried the faint smell of expensive gin and lime.
“Nobody wants you here. You’re a stain on the upholstery.”
It was a familiar cruelty, easy to swallow.
Then the frantic murmuring inside the ballroom died.
Ice stopped moving inside crystal glasses.
Leo Rossi, a man rumored to break bones as easily as dry twigs, was not looking at the heiresses surrounding him.
He was walking directly toward the stain on the upholstery.
Perspiration gathered at the base of Mave’s spine beneath the stiff satin of a borrowed dress 2 sizes too small.
The corset boning cut into her ribs every time she inhaled, so she attempted not to breathe deeply.
The grand ballroom of the Hotel Belvedere smelled of roasting meat, heavy gardenia perfume, and the acidic edge of ambition.
It was an overheated container filled with predators dressed in silk and tuxedo wool.
Mave stood beside a massive marble column with 1 shoulder pressed against the stone.
Cold passed through the thin sleeve and provided temporary relief from the oppressive heat.
A waiter moved past with a silver tray of champagne.
Mave did not take a glass.
Her stomach already held a tight mixture of acid and the inexpensive coffee she had consumed that morning.
She kept her attention on the scuff across the toe of her left shoe.
Three hours earlier, inside the bathroom of the cramped apartment above the warehouse, she had covered it with black polish in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal that she was wearing 3-year-old pumps to the most exclusive syndicate gala of the decade.
“Stop slouching.”
Caroline’s voice came from directly beside her ear.
It was sharp and damp.
Mave did not react.
She straightened, and the satin tightened painfully beneath her arms.
Caroline stepped into her peripheral vision.
Her older sister smelled of Chanel and ozone. Her blond hair had been sprayed into an immaculate wave that remained rigid when she tilted her head.
Caroline wore emerald-green velvet.
The material captured the chandelier light like deep water.
It fit perfectly.
Everything fit Caroline perfectly, largely because the Sullivan family’s remaining credit cards existed to ensure that it did.
“I’m not slouching,” Mave said.
Her voice carried the gravelly fatigue of someone who had completed a 9-hour shift at a floral warehouse before being forced into a corset.
“You’re shrinking.”
Caroline drank slowly from her champagne.
She did not look at Mave.
Her eyes moved around the ballroom, identifying the wealthy, dangerous, and useful.
“You’re attempting to disappear into the architecture. It’s pathetic.”
“Then let me go home.”
Mave rubbed her thumb against the side of her index finger.
The skin was calloused.
A rose thorn had pierced it the previous day, leaving a small scab.
She pressed her nail into the damaged skin and used the pain to steady herself.
“I don’t understand why Dad made me come.”
Caroline released a short nasal laugh.
From more than 5 ft away, it probably sounded musical.
Up close, it was abrasive.
“He brought you because it creates the correct image. Family unity. A widower with his 2 devoted daughters.”
She finally examined Mave.
Her gaze moved over the frayed hem of the blue satin, the absence of jewelry at Mave’s throat, and the disordered knot of dark hair pinned above her neck.
“It shows stability to the board.”
Caroline moved closer.
Gin overwhelmed the perfume.
“It’s unfortunate that you destroy the aesthetic.”
Her voice lowered.
“Look at you. Nobody wants you here. You’re a stain on the upholstery.”
Mave swallowed.
Her throat felt coated in dust.
She did not argue.
There was no purpose in arguing with gravity, and Caroline’s cruelty was another natural force inside her life.
The Sullivan family was drowning in debt while clinging to the lowest level of the city’s criminal elite.
Caroline was the prize, the beautiful daughter expected to marry upward and preserve them.
Mave was the spare component.
She managed the warehouse and balanced altered accounts inside a rear office that smelled of bleach and old paper.
“I’ll remain out of the way,” Mave said.
“Make certain that you do.”
Caroline had already lost interest.
She adjusted a diamond clip in her hair.
“The Rossi family is expected to send someone tonight. If 1 of them looks in this direction, I do not want your depressing face interfering with the light.”
Caroline moved away.
She entered a group of laughing women, and her expression transformed immediately into a brilliant, empty smile.
Mave released an unsteady breath and rested her head against the marble.
The ballroom’s noise moved around her: false laughter, silver forks scraping china, and the heavy bass of a string quartet turning a modern song into a waltz.
Exhaustion entered her bones.
She wanted to remove the shoes.
She wanted to sit on her damaged mattress and eat cold takeout in darkness.
Mave picked at the scab again.
A small bead of dark-red blood appeared.
She watched it rise against her pale skin.
Then the atmosphere changed.
It did not become silent immediately.
Sound suffocated gradually, as though a heavy cloth had been placed over a microphone.
Laughter near the ballroom’s double doors stopped 1st.
Then silverware became still.
The silence traveled across the room until the quartet faltered.
The cellist dragged a single discordant note across the strings before stopping.
Mave looked up from her bleeding finger.
The oak doors at the top of the carpeted staircase stood open.
The ballroom held its breath.
Leo Rossi did not perform an entrance.
He simply arrived, and the room rearranged itself around him.
He descended the stairs.
He did not move with theatrical confidence.
His gait was heavy and controlled, the walk of a man whose joints hurt but who refused to reveal it.
He wore a charcoal 3-piece suit without the shine favored by cartel heirs or the uncomfortable stiffness of old-money bankers.
The fabric was matte, quiet, and lethal.
Mave watched from beside the column.
Her breathing caught, not from admiration, but from a sudden primitive surge of adrenaline.
The air-conditioning system activated and moved cold air across her exposed shoulders.
She still became too warm.
Rossi was broad.
His shoulders tightened the wool of his jacket.
His dark hair was cut short and unremarkable, but his face appeared carved from something resistant and then abandoned in rain.
His nose was strong and slightly crooked. Dark stubble covered his jaw, and a narrow silver scar passed through his left eyebrow.
He looked profoundly tired.
Rossi stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Two men remained near him before stepping back far enough to provide the space he required.
The silence became absolute.
The electrical hum of the chandeliers was audible.
Beside a swan-shaped ice sculpture, Mave saw her father.
He had become pale and repeatedly pressed a linen handkerchief against his sweating forehead.
Across the room, Caroline stood completely straight with her chin raised to position her throat beneath the light.
She resembled a mannequin waiting to be purchased.
Rossi examined the room.
His eyes were dark, flat, and uninterested.
He ignored the glittering gowns and the faces arranged into desperate, flattering smiles.
He inspected the exits, sightlines, and shadows.
Then his gaze moved toward the marble column.
It stopped.
Mave froze.
Her heart struck her ribs painfully and removed the air from her lungs.
He was looking at her.
Not glancing.
Staring.
It was not recognition or desire.
It was the assessing attention of a man who had found something that did not belong inside the environment.
Approximately 50 ft and hundreds of people separated them.
The weight of his attention still felt like a hand pressing against Mave’s chest.
She swallowed and tasted bile and inexpensive breath mints.
Mave became aware of a loose thread hanging from the dress’s bodice.
She became aware of the blood drying on her thumb.
Every instinct ordered her to lower her face and enter the column’s shadow.
A stubborn anger appeared inside her.
She was already the room’s joke.
She was already the stain.
She would not hide because the city’s most dangerous man had decided to look at her.
Mave returned his stare.
Her jaw tightened into an unimpressed line.
Rossi’s left eyebrow moved by a fraction.
Then he began walking.
The crowd moved before he requested it.
The speed with which the city’s ruthless elite cleared a path was almost humiliating.
Men pulled their wives backward by the elbows. Waiters pressed themselves against walls while trays trembled in their hands.
Rossi moved toward the ballroom’s right side.
Toward the column.
Toward Caroline.
Mave slowly released her breath.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Caroline stood approximately 10 ft in front of her.
Mave had misread the geometry.
Rossi was not interested in the woman wearing an ill-fitting blue dress.
He was approaching the emerald-clad figure directly in front of her.
Caroline understood it too.
Mave watched her sister’s back become even straighter.
Caroline positioned 1 hip at a modest angle and seemed to vibrate with victory.
Rossi’s footsteps closed the distance.
His leather soles produced a repetitive sound against the polished marble.
Squeak.
Impact.
Squeak.
Impact.
He smelled like rain.
That was the 1st thing Mave noticed when he came closer.
There was no obvious cologne.
Only ozone, wet pavement, and a faint trace of expensive tobacco.
The scent cut through the ballroom’s perfume like a cold blade.
Rossi reached Caroline.
She parted her polished lips and lowered her voice into a practiced, intimate tone.
“Mr. Rossi, it is an absolute hon—”
He did not stop.
He did not slow or look at her.
Rossi passed so closely that the air from his movement disturbed the loose strands of Caroline’s hair.
Her mouth remained open.
The welcoming smile hardened into complete shock.
She looked as though someone had struck her.
Rossi continued for 2 deliberate steps.
Then he stopped before the marble column.
He stopped before Mave.
The proximity was suffocating.
Up close, Rossi was enormous.
His body blocked the chandelier light and placed her inside his shadow.
Mave stared at his silk tie.
It was charcoal like the suit, with a nearly invisible herringbone pattern.
She could hear him breathing.
Slow.
Deep.
She did not look at his face.
If she met his eyes, the thin surface of her composure might fracture.
She might vomit or run toward the service doors.
The ballroom’s silence shifted from anticipation to horror.
At a distant table, a fork fell against a plate.
The sound resembled a gunshot.
“You’re bleeding.”
Rossi’s voice was not smooth.
It was a low, rough rasp, like stone moving against stone.
The sound occupied the space between them.
Mave blinked.
Her thoughts struggled to interpret the statement.
She lifted her eyes slowly, following the line of his jaw and the dark stubble toward his mouth.
He was not smiling.
“What?”
The single word cracked.
Mave hated the weakness immediately.
Rossi did not repeat himself.
He raised his right hand.
His fingers were thick. The knuckles were scarred and uneven.
He did not reach for her face.
His hand moved toward those she held defensively near her waist.
Rossi took her right hand.
The grip was not painful, but it could not be resisted.
His skin was warm, dry, and rough.
He turned her palm upward and exposed the thumb.
The blood from the damaged scab had spread into a narrow crimson mark.
Rossi examined it.
Then he reached into his breast pocket and removed a dark-gray linen handkerchief.
He pressed it to her thumb.
Mave’s breathing stopped again.
The contact sent electricity through her arm and left an anxious ache behind her ribs.
She attempted to pull away.
His fingers tightened only enough to prevent it.
“Remain still.”
“It’s a scratch,” Mave said.
Heat covered her face.
She could feel the entire ballroom watching and Caroline’s hatred entering the back of her head.
“I work with roses.”
“Thorns.”
Rossi’s tone remained flat.
“It is staining the dress.”
“The dress is rented. They expect stains.”
Mave did not understand why she argued.
Her mouth moved independently, powered by panic.
Rossi looked up from her hand.
His eyes met hers.
They were not black.
They were dark, muddy hazel, marked by exhaustion and cold calculation.
“It isn’t your dress,” he said quietly.
The words were intended only for her.
There was no ridicule in them.
He sounded like an investigator stating evidence.
“It pulls at the seams, and the shoes are cutting your heels.”
His gaze remained steady.
“You have shifted your weight every 10 seconds since I entered.”
Hot shame climbed Mave’s neck.
Being noticed was frightening.
Being examined was humiliating.
“Have you finished analyzing my poverty, or would you like to inspect my dental records?”
The answer escaped before she could stop it.
Several people nearby inhaled sharply.
No one spoke to Leo Rossi that way.
No one.
Rossi stared at her.
The silence became dangerous.
Cold perspiration covered Mave’s palms.
She had destroyed her father’s remaining chance of survival.
She prepared for anger and the violence everyone believed existed beneath Rossi’s suits.
He did not shout or signal his guards.
Rossi released her hand.
He kept the handkerchief, folded her small bloodstain into the linen, and returned it to his pocket.
“You appear ready to lose consciousness,” he said.
“I’m considering it.”
Mave’s voice shook now.
The anger had receded and left fear behind.
“It would remove me from this room.”
Rossi’s jaw moved.
For less than a second, the corner of his mouth rose.
It was not a smile.
It was the beginning of a smirk, immediately restrained.
“Let’s leave.”
Mave stared.
“Leave for where?”
“Outside.”
Rossi did not offer his arm or gesture theatrically.
He turned slightly toward the doors through which he had entered.
“This room smells of dying flowers and poor cologne. I require a cigarette.”
He took 1 step without looking back.
It was not a request.
It was gravity.
Mave remained still for exactly 2 seconds.
She looked beyond him.
Her father’s face had become the color of wet ash. His mouth opened and closed without sound.
Caroline’s perfect expression had twisted into rage and disbelief.
You’re a stain on the upholstery.
Mave looked down at her damaged shoes.
Then she lifted the cheap satin skirt approximately 1 in and left the column.
She passed her furious sister and followed the city’s most dangerous man through the doors.
Cold air struck Mave when the heavy metal fire doors closed behind them.
Rossi had not entered the main lobby or a landscaped courtyard.
He had used a crash bar to reach a concrete service stairwell that smelled of stale beer, industrial cleaner, and old moisture.
The temperature dropped sharply.
Perspiration beneath Mave’s corset turned cold.
She stopped on the landing and inhaled the harsh air.
It felt like the 1st complete breath she had taken all evening.
Several steps below, Rossi reached a broad landing connected to a grated metal balcony overlooking the alley.
He said nothing.
He leaned against the rusted railing with his back toward her and reached into his pocket.
Metal clicked and scraped.
A small flame illuminated the lines of his profile.
Rossi lit a cigarette, inhaled, and closed the lighter.
Mave remained on the stairs with her fingers around the metal handrail.
Silence settled around the muffled ballroom music and the sound of tires moving across wet pavement below.
She waited for the condition.
Men like Leo Rossi did not rescue women like her from humiliating rooms because of kindness.
They did not possess kindness.
They possessed ledgers, debts, leverage, and calculated interests.
By following him, Mave had moved from decorative background into an active position on a dangerous board.
“You can remove the shoes.”
His voice reached her through cigarette smoke.
Rossi still looked down toward the dark alley.
“What?”
“The shoes.”
He inhaled again.
“You are placing your weight on the right hip to remove pressure from the left heel. It appears painful.”
His tone was practical.
“Take them off.”
“I’m fine.”
Rossi turned his head.
A yellow streetlight caught the scar through his eyebrow.
“Do as you choose. There is no one here to impress, and I do not care if you are barefoot.”
His gaze passed over her posture.
“Your pride is creating a mechanical problem.”
The absence of mockery defeated her resistance.
He was not teasing.
He was identifying a problem and offering the logical correction.
Mave looked down.
The patent-leather pumps were instruments of concentrated pain.
She removed the left shoe.
Relief arrived so intensely that she almost made a sound.
Then she removed the right.
She stood on cold concrete inside inexpensive sheer stockings.
The temperature hurt.
It was also real.
Mave descended the remaining 3 steps while holding the shoes by their straps.
She stopped several feet from Rossi.
His cigarette smelled harsh and clean compared with Caroline’s gardenia perfume, which seemed trapped inside Mave’s nose.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
Her voice sounded thin without the defiance she had managed inside the ballroom.
“Do what?”
“Walk past my sister.”
Mave held the railing.
Rust flaked beneath her palm.
“She was presented to you like a gift. My father spent 3 months arranging the evening so she would stand directly inside your sightline.”
Rossi sent ash over the railing.
“I know.”
“Then why humiliate them?”
“I did not humiliate them. They humiliated themselves.”
May you like
He turned toward her completely.
His broad shape blocked the alley light.
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