Chapter 2
Victor Romano looked exactly as she remembered, though lacking the blood and the grimace of pain.
He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and lean, radiating a kind of coiled violence that made the opulent surroundings seem fragile by comparison. He wore a midnight blue suit that looked like it had been sculpted to his frame, a black shirt underneath, and no tie. His dark hair was brushed back, but a few loose strands fell over his forehead. His eyes—a startling pale gray—were locked entirely on Dora.
He ignored Jessica. He ignored Kevin. He ignored the circle of millionaires who were suddenly holding their breath.
In this city, everyone knew who Victor Romano was. They knew about the shipping conglomerates, the real estate monopolies, and the darker, bloodier rumors that kept the police chiefs looking the other way. He was the apex predator in a room full of house cats.
Victor slowly crouched down, mirroring Dora’s position on the floor. The fabric of his suit pulled taut over his shoulders. Up close, Dora could smell his cologne—cedarwood and rain.
“Put the glass down, Dora,” he said softly.
Dora stared at him, her brain short-circuiting. “I have to clean it up or I get fired.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. He reached out, his large scarred hand gently wrapping around her wrist. His touch was warm, an anchor in the freezing humiliation of the moment. He didn’t pry her fingers open. He just held her hand steady until she voluntarily let the shard of glass drop. It clattered against the marble.
“You don’t work here anymore,” Victor said.
He stood up, keeping his grip on her hand, and pulled her up with him. He did it effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all. Dora stood beside him, her gin-soaked uniform clinging to her skin, her hair a messy knot at the base of her neck. She felt entirely out of place, yet perfectly grounded by the solid wall of his presence next to her.
Jessica, recovering from her initial shock, forced a tight, confused laugh. “Victor, what are you doing? Do you know this—this waitress?”
Victor didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on Dora’s hand. He noticed the small, thin line of red where the glass had pricked her index finger. He lifted her hand.
Slowly, deliberately, he bowed his head and pressed his lips against her bruised, calloused knuckles.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
Arthur, Jessica’s date, took a visible step backward.
Victor lingered for a moment, the warmth of his mouth a stark contrast to the cold room. When he raised his head, his gray eyes finally drifted away from Dora and settled on Jessica.
The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
“You made her kneel,” Victor said. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a death sentence.
Jessica’s face drained of color. The smug arrogance melted away, replaced by raw, naked panic. She looked around, desperate for someone to back her up, but the crowd had physically recoiled. Even Arthur was suddenly intensely interested in the ceiling architecture, creating distance between himself and Jessica.
“I—she was clumsy,” Jessica stammered, her voice shaking. “She spilled my drink. I was just—”
“I saw what you did.” Victor interrupted, his tone dangerously smooth. “I watched you drop the glass.”
Jessica opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her throat worked convulsively.
Victor turned slightly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd until he found the sweating, trembling form of Kevin, the floor manager.
“You,” Victor said.
Kevin flinched as if he’d been struck. “Yes, Mr. Romano?”
“Who employs you?”
“The—uh—Elite Staffing agency, sir. And the Aster Hotel.”
“Not anymore.” Victor’s voice was flat. “Clear out your desk. If you are seen managing anything more significant than a fast-food fryer in this city by tomorrow morning, I will consider it a personal insult.”
Kevin nodded frantically, his face completely pale, and practically scrambled backward into the crowd to disappear.
Victor turned his attention back to Jessica. She was trembling now, the crimson dress suddenly looking like a target.
“Ms. Trent,” Victor said, testing the name on his tongue as if it tasted foul. “I suggest you leave before I decide to make an example of you.”
“But—my coat—” Jessica whispered, tears of actual terror welling in her eyes.
“Leave.”
Jessica didn’t hesitate. She turned and practically ran toward the exit, the sharp click of her heels echoing erratically across the marble. She didn’t look back. Arthur didn’t follow her.
Victor didn’t watch her go. He looked back at Dora. The icy, terrifying mask he wore for the world vanished, replaced by something much softer, something fiercely protective.
“Come with me,” he said.
Dora looked at the crowd. The elites who had looked at her with disgust five minutes ago were now staring at her with profound, unadulterated fear. Because she wasn’t just a nobody anymore.
She was the woman whose hand Victor Romano had kissed.
“I need my coat,” Dora mumbled, her brain still struggling to process the shift in reality. “It’s in the back.”
“I’ll buy you a new coat,” Victor said. “I’ll buy you the factory that makes them.”
May you like
He didn’t wait for her to argue. He laced his fingers through hers and began to walk. The crowd parted instantly, creating a wide, clear path to the grand double doors. Men stepped back. Women lowered their eyes. It was a silent, absolute display of power.
Dora walked beside him, leaving the silver tray, the spilled gin, and the shattered glass behind her on the floor.
