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My body hums with two opposing urges. To drag Cassidy somewhere quiet and see if this attraction is one-sided. And to simultaneously build a wall so thick she can never penetrate it.
Across the room, my eyes land on Candice, who’s perched on a barstool beside an older man with olive skin and slicked-back hair. I only recall her name because Frank kept going on and on about her tits. And of course, he made it a point to find out who she was.
She’s fingering the corner of his red handkerchief extending from his breast pocket. His suit is similar to Gianni’s, a bespoke black three-piece that says I’m in charge here. Something about their interaction feels dubious, rehearsed.
I can’t help but survey the scene. Something is off. This guy’s a little too attentive. His hand lingers on her wrist as she laughs loudly at something he says. She doesn’t seem bothered by him. But I’d bet my life that their interaction isn’t what it seems. For now, I file it away without really knowing why.
Movement in my periphery breaks my focus as Gianni drops into the chair beside me. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“Like what?”
He reaches for a cigar before letting out an exasperated exhale. “I haven’t pushed you on what happened last night,” he says calmly. “But you need to be careful, Max.”
“I know.”
“This woman isn’t just some hot chick you met in a club. She’s a nice girl. And it’s my club.”
My head falls forward. “I wouldn’t ask you to treat me any differently than anyone else if I crossed a line.”
Gianni studies me. “I know. That’s not what I’m worried about.” His words cause me to sit up straight. “You need to think clearly about this before you invite her into your espionage,” he continues. “Because it won’t just be you in the crosshairs if someone catches wind of it. Especially Vincenzo. Look what he’s done to Luca and Matteo’s women.”
“What the hell are you talking about, G? I don’t have a woman.”
“They won’t know that.” His words hit like a sucker punch. “This isn’t like you, Max. But then again, you haven’t been yourself lately.”
“If I did work with her, it’d be within the privacy of this building, where we’re protected. Not out there.” I thumb toward the door. “She’s taking some classes and showed interest in helping decipher digital files. I thought, why not? I hate that shit anyway.” I shrug, hoping he’s buying the crap I’m shoveling. He’s not.
“Sure. Cut the shit, lover boy.” He chuckles. “I wish I could’ve seen the look on your face when you found out what she was studying. You’ve had it bad for Cassidy since the minute you laid eyes on her.”
Gianni’s probably the most intuitive man I know. Can everyone see it, or just him? As he lights up his cigar, I take a sip of my scotch, allowing the burn to ground me. Maybe I’m getting tired of being alone. The meaningless one-night stands. Yet I know Gianni’s right. Nothing good can come of this. Beyond the danger involved in working alongside me, there’s the fact I’m an unhinged asshole bent on revenge. It’s made worse by the fact I have no idea where to focus my retribution.
I should put some distance between us. Try to regain my control. Even if that means wanting her from across a room and nowhere else. And yet my eyes drift back to Cassidy anyway.
Well, that lasted for a hot second.
This is ridiculous. I need to do the right thing here. Protect her. Especially from me.
Cassidy
Wiping off a table in the corner, I peer over my shoulder toward the VIP section. Jeez, this is ludicrous. Yet after our discussion earlier, I can’t seem to stop myself. This is compounded by the fact each time I look up, Max is watching me. It’s not a casual glance my way. It’s not the lazy interest of a man killing time in a club. It’s intense. Focused. Like he’s trying to solve something he doesn’t have all the pieces for. That’s the way he’s always looked at me. The action makes my stomach flip in ways it shouldn’t.
While I’m drowning in desire for a man that is completely off-limits, Fern is chattering beside me about her hairstyle for the seventies party. “I swear, if they don’t go full Farrah Fawcett, I’m going to be offended. This is the one decade where big hair is a requirement.”
Candice snorts. “Yes. Bell bottoms and big curls… I want to be a technicolor dream.” She barely finishes her sentence before an older gentleman catches her eye. She drifts past us, cheeks flushed, giggling as she approaches the man in a familiar way. Something about it pricks at my instincts, but the others just roll their eyes. It’s probably nothing. Just my usual inclination to turn everything into a mystery that needs solving.
“Lala, maybe we could decorate the playground to look like Studio 54. You know, velvet ropes leading into the club and a giant, glowing crescent moon suspended from the ceiling above the dance floor.”
“Oh, Brier, that’s a fantastic idea. We could even rig a mechanical spoon up there that captures that era’s hedonistic vibes.”
I might have to do some seventies research on Studio 54 and the vibes they’re referencing, because I’m older than Lala and have absolutely no idea what the two of them are talking about. And I grew up in New York.
Lala and Brier wander off, and I try to refocus on my tray, the music, literally anything except the man in the VIP section who all but admitted he operates in a morally gray zone that could get me fired if I were still wearing my badge.
That’s the part that won’t let go. Max didn’t actually confess to anything. He gave no details. But he alluded to unethical behavior. Enough that if I keep digging and find something real, I’m not just flirting with danger. I’m choosing between two worlds. The career I’ve had to pause while I heal, but never truly walked away from. Or whatever anti-hero lifestyle Max Wilde is living, where the risks aren’t just professional, but possibly lethal.
I think about Penelope Garcia, safe behind a screen, brilliant and protected. Yet Max isn’t a work of fiction. He’s lurking in places criminals don’t want exposed. And who knows what else he’s involved with. Once he has his information, does he act on it? Is he turning this over to his clients or the police? Or does he have handlers who take care of the situation?
My heart stutters, knowing this is a very real possibility. This man is a billionaire. A billionaire surrounded by other powerful men just like him. They are used to taking care of problems. If they feel the legal system has let someone down, what’s to prevent them from taking it into their own hands. This isn’t something I want to consider more closely. Because if I step into that space, there’s no neutral ground. I need to make a choice. Walk away now, or cross a line I can never come back from.
