She inadvertently called the mafia boss “baby”—he sneered, “Say it again, a little slower.”
What happens when the most fearsome man in New York’s underworld [clears throat] is mistaken for a clumsy assistant? Just one wrong word in the crowded VIP hallway.
It changed Elena’s life forever. She accidentally bumped into a tailored suit, sighed, and muttered, “Be careful, darling.”
He just smirked, “Say it again.” Slower. Grand Atoria
The hotel was a masterpiece with gilded ceilings and crystal chandeliers, but to Elena Hayes, it was a beautiful place.
The battleground was decorated. As a senior event coordinator for Lumiere occasions, Elena was currently busy for two hours a day.
Sleep, three espressos, and pure, undiluted adrenaline. Tonight was the Sterling Foundation’s annual gala, a big event.
A sham ball where New York’s elite gather to bid on modern art and pretend they have nothing.
Offshore tax havens. Elena pressed a finger to the earpiece behind her ear, her other hand clutching something.
The clipboard was overflowing. Zara, tell me if you’ve found the missing Dom Perin case yet? What if table number one doesn’t have the champagne?
In exactly four minutes, Mr. Henderson will be gasping for breath and I won’t be giving him CPR. A crackling noise filled the air.
She leaned closer before her assistant and best friend Sarah could speak. Her voice was full of anxiety. “I’m in the loading area. I…”
“I think the waiter brought it to the West Wing. Give me three minutes. You’re a lifesaver. Hurry up, darling. I’m dying.”
“Here,” Elena mumbled into the microphone. She always called Sarah “baby,” a term of endearment that had faded after three years of childbirth.
Years of working together in the high-end event industry. Elena glanced at her watch; 8:14 p.m. She needed to finish one last thing.
She thoroughly inspected the VIP hallway before the important guests arrived. She tucked her walkie-talkie into her jacket pocket, clipped a paperclip to her chest, and…
She sped off with swift, decisive steps around the wide hallway. She didn’t even notice the solid, muscular wall…
until she crashed into it. The impact was hard. Elena gasped as the cutting board flew from her hand, shattering into pieces.
The meticulously arranged seating charts and schedules on the luxurious Persian carpet were scattered everywhere. Her headphones fell out.
Suspended on a wire, she stumbled backward, hoping the person she’d bumped into would apologize or at least move aside.
Instead, His posture remained as stiff as stone. “Oh, for the love of God!” Elena groaned, kneeling down.
She frantically searched for her papers. Her head ached, the tension of the evening finally erupting. Without looking up, she snapped, “Can you see where you’re going?”
Was she standing? Seriously, step back a little, darling. I only have five minutes before the doors open and you’re trampling on the mayor’s dietary regulations.
The silence that followed was unusual. It wasn’t merely quiet. It was a heavy, suffocating void. The surrounding sounds of…the distant whispers of hotel staff seemed to vanish. Elena snatched the last piece of paper and finally looked up. She didn’t see a lost soul, perhaps a waiter or a confused guest. She was looking at a pair of handcrafted Italian leather oxford shoes. Her gaze swept upwards…
A perfectly tailored pair of charcoal gray trousers, paired with a silk tie, and finally resting on a face that looked as if…
It had been sculpted from marble by an artist specializing in ruthless angles. The Castellano fanatic. Even someone like…
Completely detached from the criminal underworld, as Elena knew that face. It was the face that had once graced the cover of Forbes and was the subject of FBI wiretapping. Officially, Dominic was the CEO of Castellano Shipping and Logistics. Unofficially, he was…the undisputed boss of the East Coast Syndicate, the man who was said to have eliminated his father’s rivals in the past.
Today was his 25th birthday. He was now 29, and the energy radiating from him was almost radioactive. Standing behind him were three men who didn’t look like hotel security guards. They looked like professional thugs.
The biggest man, a scarred man known on the streets as Vincent Russo, reached his hand inside…
Wearing a tailored suit jacket, his eyes fixed on Elena with a murderous look. Elena’s heart stopped. She had just yelled at Dominic Castellano. She had just told him to watch his place, and she had called him “baby.” Vincent took a half-step forward menacingly. Boss.
Dominic raised a gloved hand. Vincent froze instantly, recoiling into the shadows like a puppet on strings. Dominic slowly tilted his head, his dark hair and calculating eyes fixed on Elena, who remained kneeling motionless, clutching the crumpled papers.
The hallway was silent. Elena could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. She tried to swallow, but…
Her throat was as dry as sandpaper. Dominic slowly bent down to her level. He moved with the predatory grace of a leopard, his massive frame completely overwhelming the space around her.
He exuded the scent of expensive cedar wood, the chill of rain, and danger. He reached out and gently picked up a fallen piece of paper.
From her trembling fingers. “Did you call me?” His voice was deep and resonant. It contained no anger. It contained…
Something far more terrifying. An absolutely unshakeable conspiracy. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Castellano,” he stammered, his professional demeanor and quick wit of an event organizer completely gone.
“I thought you were my assistant. I just spoke to her on the phone,” Dominic’s lips curled slightly. It was a very subtle movement.
But a sharp, murderous smirk slowly spread across his face. His eyes lowered to her lips, then looked up at her again.
Her eyes widened in terror. “Say that again,” Dominic murmured, leaning in a little closer. The warmth from him…
That closeness sent a shiver down Elena’s spine. “Slow down.” “Mr. Castilleno, I didn’t mean that.”
“Call me,” he interrupted softly. His gaze flicked to the silver namatag pinned to her blazer lapel. “Alena, speak.”
Again. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. The sheer absurdity of the situation mingled with utter horror.
“My love,” she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. Dominic’s smirk deepened, a dangerously possessive grin.
He rose, once more taller than her, and held out his hand. “Get up, Elena.”
She hesitantly placed her small hand in his. His hand was warm, firm, and calloused. A man’s hand…
Just sitting behind his desk. He easily pulled her to her feet. “I apologize for the collision,” Alma said with difficulty. Her professional mask was struggling to get back into place. “I need to get back on the stage. Have a pleasant evening, sir.”
