The gala was extravagant. Over-the-top. The kind of place where criminals disguised themselves as gentlemen, and blood-stained money was thrown around like confetti. It was a sea of tailored suits, designer gowns, and polite yet deadly conversations.
And I was stuck in the middle of it.
Dario had been glued to my side all night, his hand lingering just enough to remind me that I wasn’t free. It wasn’t affectionate—it was possessive, a quiet warning to anyone watching.
I hated it.
I hated the dress I was forced to wear, that clung to my body like a second skin. I hated the heels that made every step feel like a calculated risk. And most of all, I hated the way Dario acted like I wasn’t plotting at least five different ways to escape.
“Relax,” he murmured beside me, his voice smooth and
