The room suddenly feels too hot. The music too loud. The whiskey in my hand tastes like shit.
"Rafaelle,” Matteo murmurs, already able to tell that I’m about to lose my shit.
Across the room, the man says something that makes Liliana laugh.
He tries again, “Rafaelle, wait.”
I've had enough. Without another word, I set down my drink and cross the ballroom.
People move out of my way instinctively, my reputation a deterrent causing fear to flash across their faces. The song continues playing. Liliana is still dancing with him.
Her back is turned to me. She doesn’t see me as I approach.
Until I step between them.
The man looks terrified. As he should for daring to touch what’s mine. He seems to be the head of one of the small cartels in the city. But I couldn’t give less of a fuck.
"I'll take it from here."
The words leave no room for argument.
His gaze flicks from me to Liliana. Then back again.
Smartly deciding he values his life, he retreats.
Coward.
Liliana stares up at me. Those amber eyes immediately finding mine. The rest of the room disappears. Just like it always does. Slowly, I extend my hand.
For a second she simply looks at it. Then she places hers in mine. The instant her fingers touch my palm, something unclenches inside my chest. Air finally reaches my lungs. I pull her against me. Closer than necessary. Closer than appropriate. But I find I don't care.
Not even a little.
Because for the first time since she left me standing in that warehouse, she's here. In my arms.
Exactly where she belongs.
For a long moment neither of us speaks. Classical music floats over to us and we sway softly, pretending for a moment that no one else exists but us.
It's pathetic. I know it is. A woman shouldn't have this much power over me.
Especially not this woman. Yet the tightness that's been lodged in my chest for weeks eases the second I pull her against me. Like some part of me has finally found its way home.
I hate it. Almost as much as I love it.
“You look good, Rafaelle,” she says, surprising me by speaking first.
There’s no missing the nerves in her expression, the tremble that passes through her body. She’s scared. She’s worried about what I’ll say.
"You don't clean up too badly yourself, little siren,” I tell her. “Nice dress."
“It’s Dolce and Gabbana,” she informs me. “Super expensive. I was a little scared when I put it on because I was worried it would rip.”
I snort. For a moment, this feels normal. Impossibly so. It feels like we're back in my house. Like we never left.
But then I remember she ripped my heart out and handed it to her father.
And reality returns.