His Empire, His Rules

The champagne was too expensive, the dresses too tight, and the men too entitled. Aria Moretti had attended enough charity galas to know the formula by heart: wealthy people gathered to feel good about themselves while spending obscene amounts of money they'd write off on their taxes. She didn't belong here. But then again, she'd spent most of her life not belonging anywhere. Aria adjusted the strap of her simple black dress....vintage Chanel from a consignment shop, not that anyone here would know the difference....and accepted another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The Plaza Hotel ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and diamond jewelry that could probably fund a small country. She'd only come because three of her paintings were being auctioned tonight, and her gallery needed the exposure. "Lot 47," the auctioneer announced. "A stunning piece by emerging artist Marina Castellano, donated by the Moretti Gallery." Aria watched as her carefully curated painting....all dark shadows and crimson undertones....appeared on the screen. She'd discovered Marina in a Brooklyn basement studio three months ago. The girl had talent, rage, and something to say. Everything Aria looked for in the artists she represented. "We'll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars." The usual parade of paddle races began. Twenty thousand. Thirty-five. Fifty. Aria allowed herself a small smile. Marina would be thrilled. "One hundred thousand dollars." The room fell silent. Aria's head snapped toward the voice...deep, commanding, with an accent she couldn't quite place. Italian, maybe. Or something darker. And then she saw him. He stood in the back of the ballroom, surrounded by an invisible barrier that kept the crowd at a respectful distance. Tall, easily over six feet, with black hair styled perfectly and a jaw that looked carved from marble. He wore a tuxedo like he'd been born in one, but there was nothing soft about him. Everything from his posture to the cold calculation in his dark eyes screamed danger. Their gazes locked across the room. Aria forgot to breathe. She'd never believed at that moment....the one from books and movies where time stops and the rest of the world fades away. It was fiction, fantasy, the kind of thing that didn't happen to practical women who paid their bills on time and kept their expectations realistic. But for three endless seconds, nothing existed except those eyes. Dark, almost black, assessing her with an intensity that made heat pool low in her belly. He looked at her like he was solving a puzzle. Like he was deciding something important. Like he was deciding exactly how he wanted to take her apart. The thought should have terrified her. Instead, her body responded with a rush of want so intense it left her dizzy. She could feel her n*****s tighten against the silk of her dress, could feel the flush spreading across her chest. And from the way his eyes darkened, the way his jaw clenched, he knew exactly what effect he was having on her. "One hundred thousand going once," the auctioneer said, breaking the spell. Aria blinked, turning back to the front just as the gavel came down. "Sold to Mr. Valentino for one hundred thousand dollars!" Valentino. The name echoed through the ballroom in whispers. Aria had heard it before....everyone in New York had. Dante Valentino, the billionaire who'd built an empire before thirty. Tech. Real estate. Import-export. Legal on the surface, but the rumors underneath were darker. Much darker. Some said he had connections to organized crime. Others whispered that he was organized crime, hiding behind expensive suits and charitable donations. The tabloids called him "The Wolf of Wall Street's dangerous younger brother." The business section called him a genius. Women called him with alarming frequency, according to the gossip blogs. No one called him twice. "Miss Moretti?" Aria startled, finding a man in a crisp black suit standing at her elbow. He was handsome in a dangerous way, with a scar above his left eyebrow and the build of someone who spent time in the ring. "Yes?" "Mr. Valentino requested your presence." It wasn't a question. Her heart kicked against her ribs. "I'm sorry, do I know Mr. Valentino?" "You do now." The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. "This way, please." Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. To make an excuse and disappear into the crowd. To put as much distance as possible between herself and whatever Dante Valentino wanted. Instead, she handed her empty champagne flute to a passing waiter and followed. They wove through the ballroom, past clusters of New York's elite pretending not to watch. Aria felt their eyes on her back, felt the weight of their curiosity and speculation. By tomorrow, someone will have posted about this on i********:. By next week, the gossip blogs would be inventing a relationship. The man led her to a private alcove near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. And there he was. Up close, Dante Valentino was devastating. He turned as she approached, and Aria realized her first impression had been wrong. He wasn't handsome....handsome was too soft a word. He was the kind of beauty that made you understand why ancient civilizations had worshiped fallen angels. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth that looked like sin, and those eyes. God, those eyes. "Miss Moretti." His voice rolled over her, dark and rich. "Thank you for joining me." "Did I have a choice?" The words were out before she could stop them. His mouth curved into something that might have been a smile on a different man. On him, it looked predatory. "There's always a choice. You made yours." "I was under the impression it was an invitation I couldn't refuse." "Perceptive." He gestured to the man who'd brought her. "Leave us, Marcus." Marcus melted into the shadows without a word. Aria found herself alone with the most dangerous man in New York, and her survival instincts were screaming at her to run. "I purchased your painting," Dante said, moving closer. Not close enough to be inappropriate, but close enough that she could smell his cologne....something expensive and dark that made her think of midnight and bad decisions. "Marina Castellano's painting," Aria corrected. "I simply represent her work." "Do you?" He tilted his head, studying her with that unsettling intensity. "Or do you hide behind the artists you discover? Safer that way, isn't it? To let others take the risk of being seen." The observation cut too close to the bone. Aria lifted her chin. "I don't know what you mean." "Don't you?" He reached out, and she froze as his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from her face. The touch was brief, barely there, but it sent electricity skating down her spine. "You have shadows in your eyes, Aria Moretti. The kind that comes from running from something. Or someone." "You don't know anything about me." "Not yet." He stepped back, and she could breathe again. "But I will. Consider the painting a down payment." "On what?" "On getting to know you better." He pulled a business card from his inner jacket pocket and held it out. "Have dinner with me." Aria stared at the card like it might bite her. Heavy card stock, black with silver lettering. Just his name and a phone number. No title, no company. Men like Dante Valentino didn't need to advertise who they were. "I don't think that's a good idea," she said carefully. "I didn't ask if it was a good idea. I asked you to dinner." "And I'm declining." Something flickered in his eyes....surprise, maybe, or intrigue. Clearly, he wasn't used to being told no. "Why?" "Because I know your reputation, Mr. Valentino. And I'm not interested in becoming another tabloid headline." "My reputation." He laughed, a low sound that did dangerous things to her pulse. "And what exactly have you heard?" "Enough to know I should stay far away from you." "Wise." He moved closer again, and this time when he leaned in, his breath ghosted across her ear. "But here's the thing about wisdom, Bella. It's terribly boring. And I don't think you're the boring type." Aria's hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She needed the pain to ground her, to remind her that this was real and not some fever dream brought on by too much champagne and not enough food. "Thank you for purchasing the painting," she managed. "I'm sure Marina will be thrilled. Now if you'll excuse me...." "Three days." She paused. "I'm sorry?" "I'll give you three days to change your mind." He pressed the business card into her hand, his fingers curling around hers for just a moment. "After that, I'll find another way to get your attention. And trust me, Cara, you won't like my alternative methods nearly as much as a simple dinner." It should have sounded like a threat. Maybe it was a threat. But the way he said it, with that dark promise in his voice, made it sound like something else entirely. A warning. A dare. A prophecy. Aria pulled her hand away, the card burning like a brand in her palm. "Goodnight, Mr. Valentino." "Dante," he corrected. "And this isn't goodbye, Aria. It's just the beginning." She walked away on shaking legs, feeling his eyes on her with every step. She didn't look back. Looking back would be a mistake. Looking back would be admitting that part of her....the reckless, self-destructive part she worked so hard to bury....wanted to stay. It wasn't until she was in the elevator, descending toward the lobby, that she let herself examine the business card. Just his name and number, like he'd said. But when she turned it over, she found a handwritten note in bold, slashing script: You can't run from fate, Bella. And you were always meant to be mine. Aria's hands trembled as she stared at the words. She should tear up the card. Throw it away. Block out the memory of dark eyes and dangerous promises. Instead, she slipped it into her clutch and tried to ignore the voice in her head that whispered she'd just made a terrible mistake. Three days later, she would discover she was right.