Chapter One
Antonio
The mirror doesn’t lie, but it also doesn’t tell the whole truth.
Under the soft bathroom light, I look like the Antonio everyone expects—tailored suit, crisp white shirt, hair put in place with the kind of care that reads as effortless. The kind of face people trust before I’ve earned the right.
The kind of body that makes men decide I’m a problem and women decide I’m a solution.
I lift my arm to adjust the cuff and the quick twinge in my side makes my jaw lock.
I hold still for a beat, eyes locked on my own in the glass. Then I make the movement again, slower. Controlled.
Six months. Just about.
Six months since the gunshot.
Not a graze. Not a dramatic little movie wound you can shrug off for the story. A bullet that sent me to the operating room and nearly took me out. It took muscle. It took time. It took a piece of my patience that I haven’t gotten back.
Iroll my shoulder once, carefully. The scar is mostly hidden under the shirt, but I know it’s there. I know how the skin pulls when I stretch too far. I know which angle makes it ache and beg for attention.
Rehab has been a lesson I didn’t ask for. A schedule. Reps. Limits. Sleep when my mind wants to run. Rest when my pride wants to prove something. People treating me like I’m made of glass when I’m not. People treating me like I’m fine when I’m not.
The only thing worse than being weak is being watched while you pretend you aren’t.
Tonight, nobody is watching that part.
Tonight is The Regent Club’s gala—our gala, our statement, our velvet-gloved promise to Atlantic City that we didn’t build a casino and hotel to play small. We built it to own the room. And I’m here because owning the room is what I do.
I lean closer to the mirror and straighten my tie knot. Perfect. Not too tight, not too casual. I can’t afford either.
I exhale through my nose, slow, quiet, and set my posture. Shoulders back. Chest open. Weight balanced. The pain gets its single acknowledgment and nothing more.
A knock taps the door.
“Antonio?” Roberto’s voice. “You good?”
“I’m gorgeous,” I call back, voice light.
The door opens, and Robertosteps in.
He looks sharp in black tie, exactly what you’d expect from the man who can walk into a gala or courtroom and command both rooms equally.
His eyes flick to my side.
I don’t flinch. I don’t give him anything.
He studies my face instead. “You sure you want to work the floor tonight?”
I pick up my cuff links, fasten them with my right hand first, then the left, keeping the movements smooth. “Do I look like I’m going to sit upstairs and eat canapés alone?”
Roberto’s mouth pulls into something that almost counts as a smile. “You’d hate it.”
“I’d set something on fire out of boredom.”
He crosses his arms. “It’s not boredom I’m worried about.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror. “I’m not fragile.”