Page 1 of Sinful Eve

Olivia

My alarm clock's scream rockets my heart into my throat. I slam my palm against it, but my pulse keeps hammering as my mind races ahead to tonight. The Gataki wedding. Just thinking those words makes my stomach clench. The sensible part of me—the part that color-codes her calendar and always backs up her files to a cloud—knows I'm crossing a line by photographing a mafia wedding.Allegedmafia, I remind myself, but the word is as hollow as the excuses I've swallowed since I took their deposit.

The morning light creeping through my blinds paints stripes across my crumpled comforter, and I trace them with my finger, putting off the moment I have to face reality. The reality is I fed my skeletal checking account, and the stack of unpaid bills on my desk, with bloody money. I agreed to spend my evening photographing a crime family’s Christmas wedding.Allegedcrime family.

My toes curl away from the icy hardwood as I force myself out of bed. The thermostat reads sixty degrees—a brilliant money-saving strategy that seemed smarter before I spent two monthsin Florida caring for Mom. Now, Chicago's December feels like it's trying to freeze the marrow in my bones. I wrap my arms around myself, remembering Mom's face when I told her I had to return to work. The way her mouth pinched tight, trying to hide her worry. "Just be careful, Livvy," she'd said. She’d sensed I'd do something desperate once the medical bills rolled in.

My camera bag sits in the corner, already packed for tonight. Three backup batteries, extra memory cards, my best low-light lenses—everything meticulously prepared because I can't afford a single mistake. Not with this client. My stomach does another flip as I imagine trying to explain to Carlo Gataki why I missed the first dance because of equipment failure. The man's presence fills a room like smoke, heavy and dangerous. When he'd interviewed me for the job, his dark eyes had stripped away every defense, every practiced line about my "artistic vision," until I stood naked under his gaze.

Damn, the man and his raptor eyes. The police probably kept him under twenty-four hours surveillance. Because an infant could see that he was trouble. Too bad, I didn't have time to dance,or sleep, with danger. I press my forehead against the cold window glass, and my breath fogs the pane. The truth is, I'm not just desperate for money—I'm desperate to prove myself. Two months away cost me more than savings. My regulars found other photographers. My reviews dropped. One bride even posted that I was "unreliable" because I'd canceled her booking when Mom's infection got worse. Each lost client is another crack in the foundation of everything I've built.

The Gatakis could change all that. Their circle includes half of Chicago's elite, the kind of clients who drop five figures on wedding photos without blinking. One perfect album from their wedding could rebuild my reputation overnight. If I survive the night. If none of those rumors about their "family business" are true.

I'd interviewed with the happy couple, Nicos and Charmaine, at The Marquis Diamond. Nicos Gataki's club office had screamed money and power, from the hand-carved desk to the view of Chicago's skyline. The groom had sprawled in his leather chair like a crowned prince, while his fiancée, Dr. Charmaine Adams, sat next to him, her hand resting atop his while I shuffled through my portfolio and pitched my suggestions.

"Whatever my Queen wants, she gets," Nicos had declared, cutting off Charmaine's protest about the budget. His accent had turned the words into silk, but there was steel underneath.

She'd frowned at his words. "You do remember the bride is supposed to pay for the wedding, right?"

He'd answered by kissing her hand, and the tenderness in his eyes had melted through my reservations. Didn't matter the couple, love is love. "Do you remember, agapi mou, that there is no amount of money I wouldn't spend to make you happy?"

She'd sighed. Who wouldn't? I'd almost become a puddle of mush myself. They were a 'what if' couple. One of those couples that made people go:"What if true love was real? What if a man really did put you first? What if you didn't have to spend your life hoping for a prince?"‘What if' couples made me wish I could work for free.

They were so different from the 'as ifs.'As ifs married because their friends did, because they wanted children, because they needed a spouse to feel successful. They grumbled things like: ‘As if I have time for this. As if I have the money for that.’Sadly, I'd seen my name sliding into theas ifcolumn. I didn't have the time, the patience, or thewillto invest in a relationship. God help me, but I'd given up on ever being part of a 'what if' couple. Instead, something temporary, one or two nights of being loved on, was all I could manage.

Carlo Gataki would have been perfect. I'd looked at the man standing silently in the background when I’d met the bride and groom. He never interrupted but he also never took his eyes off me. It took all my resources not to squirm. My eyes had flicked to him again. Drop-dead gorgeous—I didn't know if it was a misnomer or not, but it felt right. Would he be interested in a one-night fling? Or would he be the type who would cling and hang on, squeezing out the last breath of a relationship?

Hmph,as if.

"I've seen your work, Olivia," Charmaine had said, pulling me from my musings. "Maria couldn't stop raving about how you captured her daughter's quinceañera." She gave me a slight smile. "And I appreciate that you understand... diverse communities need representation behind the lens too."

I'd been surprised they'd picked me—my rates weren't the highest, but they weren't bargain basement either. But watching them together, I'd gotten it. Despite the designer watch on his wrist and that casually mentioned private jet, Charmaine had the same down-to-earth vibe as my regular clients. Just with a future husband who treated money like most people treat pocket lint.

"We have other appointments," Nicos had announced, already standing. "Carlo will handle the details." He'd cupped Charmaine's face. "Your designer is waiting, Doc."

Char had laughed and shaken her head. "The designer, the seamstress—I could have easily found something in a bridal magazine."

"And now you don't have to." Nicos had pulled her into his side. "Let me do this for you, Dr. Adams—soon-to-be Gataki. You work so hard, too hard. I love you. Let me pamper you." He'd cupped her face and gently kissed her lips until she'd sighed and nodded.

Aww, what if?

***

After the couple had left, Carlo had sat behind the desk. All six feet of dark suit and smoldering intensity. He was charged with security for the wedding, and he'd laid out the protocols for the evening. "One non-negotiable rule," he'd said in a low voice. "Some guests prefer privacy. You'll be given a list of who can and cannot be photographed."

"That's not how wedding photography works," I'd argued. "Candid moments—"

"Non-negotiable," he'd repeated. His eyes had locked onto mine, until I'd agreed. "Good, with that settled, everything else is pretty standard. You'll sign the usual N.D.A." He'd slid a folder of disclosures to me. "After you sign, I'll have Nicos and Char sign as well and fax your copy to your home tonight."

He'd paused and waited until I'd looked up from the document I was skimming. The temperature in the room had jumped ten degrees as his perusal seared mine, his brow giving the slightest lift. "Or we could review it over dinner."

O.M.G. Was the hot security chief asking me out on a date? Yeah, right. As if. "No, thank you. The fax is fine. I'll leave the number with your secretary."

"The offer for dinner still stands," he'd said as I'd pushed the signed papers across the desk.

"To discuss..."

His lips had quirked up, and he'd shaken his head. "No wedding to discuss. Just two people getting to know each other over a nice meal."

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