The air inside the grand ballroom was thick with a dangerous kind of static.
I stood near the edge of the VIP lounge, my fingers tightening around the stem of my crystal glass until my knuckles turned as white as my father's birthday cake. My eyes were fixed on the opposite side of the hall. Vittorio was still standing there, looking disgustingly magnificent in his black tailored tuxedo, but his presence was currently obscured by a flock of high-society women who were practically throwing themselves at his broad shoulders.
Every time one of those girls let out a high-pitched, fake laugh, a wave of pure, unadulterated curse flooded my veins.
He knew exactly what he was doing. Every few seconds, his dark eyes would cut through the crowd, landing straight on me. He would raise his glass of
