Page 3 of Sinful Eve

I straighten my spine and wade back into the reception. Each shot becomes a silent conversation with Carlo across the room—his subtle nods giving permission, his frowns steering me away from forbidden subjects. We move in sync like dance partners who've practiced for years, his body language as clear as spoken commands. My skin prickles every time I feel his gaze track my movements.

The elegant reception has evolved into something wilder as the night deepens. The Cathedral pulses with color and motion, the candlelight painting everything in amber and gold. Through my lens, the bride and groom float across the dance floor as ifgravity doesn't apply to them. They are one of the most dazzling couples I’ve ever photographed.

I lower my camera, struck by a question that's nagged at me all night. Who are these people really? What battles have they fought to earn this fairy tale ending? And more importantly, what am I getting myself into by letting Carlo's dangerous gravity pull me into their orbit?

I snatch a photo of Carlo. Catching him in the rare moment when his attention is divided. He speaks to an older man, his expression serious, the lines of his face etched with responsibility. His shoulders are broad and steady. Unbowed by the weight he carries.

Loud, drunken voices at the room’s far end draw everyone’s attention. Their angry snarls lift over the music. A collective gasp silences the room when Carlo enters the fray—silencing the troublemakers with a look. I tremble, imagining that look leveled at me. A sentiment I must share with everyone else—as we all exhale. What kind of power does he wield to diffuse a dangerous situation using only his presence? After the party regains its rhythm, he returns to his station near the newly wedded couple. I’m not fooled. He is no ordinary bodyguard. Earlier, his eyes had stalked mine like we were on the Savannah, and I was his prey. Now, my eyes reciprocate. Mimicking his intense look until his eyes narrow, and he tips his head. The simple cue orders me to return to photographing. Which I do, despite my heart telling me that the most compelling man in a room full of mafiosos is Carlo.

After hours of standing, I thank God for the custom comfort insoles in my plain black flats. The insoles were a tip from my nurse friend Sarah that's saved my life at countless weddings. Best investment I ever made. But even with my expensive insoles, my feet ache. I lean against a pillar and close my eyes. When I open them, Carlo is there, his gaze intense.

“You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine. Just a long day,” I say, straightening up.

Carlo studies me for a moment. “You’re good at what you do, Olivia. Not many could capture this night the way you have.”

His surprising compliment warms me. “Thank you, Carlo. You’re not so bad at your job yourself.”

“I try.” A smile tugs at his lips. I barely know him, yet my heart warms at what I instinctively know is a rare treat.

The moment lingers—as if we are both reluctant to pop the quiet bubble encasing us. Then, as if remembering himself, Carlo straightens. “We’re having a private party for the staff at Club Curve above the penthouse. Join us.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That sounded more like a command than an invitation.”

Carlo matches my raised brow and trumps it. “Exactly.” He says firmly before walking away.

I grab another shot of him. Capturing his broad shoulders, muscular back, and perfectly rounded ass cheeks. Men don’t get enough credit for having nice asses. I sigh. All the energy that had arced between us when we spoke fizzles and drains when he walks away. I sigh at the lenses, backdrops, and lighting that need to be packed and hauled to the suite the Gatakis provided for the night.

Another night, another hotel… alone. What the hell is wrong with me today? It has to be the holiday season. Carlo is still talking with the rest of the security detail near the empty head table. His eyes shift to mine as if I’ve pulled him from his conversation. He wings his brow up and openly stares. When I don’t turn away, he quirks his lip in another of those rare smiles.

He points his finger up, inviting me once again to the party that will soon take place above our heads. I nod. What the hell am I thinking? I question my sanity as I shuffle behind the bellman who’d appeared to help me with my things. This isprobably a huge mistake, but I haven’t been in a man’s arms in over a year, and dammit, I’m going.

Carlo

Crystal snowflakes catch the lights of Club Curve, sending prisms dancing across the walls. I scan the room from my usual spot near the VIP section, taking in the massive Christmas tree dripping with silver and gold in the corner. Even on Christmas Eve, business doesn't stop. But for once, that thought doesn't sit right. Maybe because tonight feels different. Watching Nicos marry Char, seeing my cousin finally plant roots after years of global expansion... it's stirred something restless in my soul.

My gaze sweeps each corner, each shadow. Old habits. Even on a good night, I can't turn off the part of my brain that's always watching, always calculating. That's how you survive when you're trying to overcome your father's legacy of betrayal and earn your place in the Family. Being born a Gataki meant nothing when your father was the family's biggest disappointment. Every ounce of trust, every promotion, I earned through loyalty and calculated brutality.

"You good, boss?" My brother Mic appears at my shoulder. He's the steadiest of my siblings, the one who followed me intothe family business without question. Two more of my brothers joined after him—all of us built like tanks, all of us raised alongside the other young Gatakis. We had to fight twice as hard to prove ourselves worthy of the name we shared with the Family but didn't truly belong to.

"I'm good." I roll my tension-tight shoulders. "Tell everyone Nicos appreciated their hard work tonight. They'll find a nice bonus in their cut. Mr. Gataki thanks them for making his night go smoothly."

The Chicago club is mine now—Nicos's wedding gift to me after years of following him around the world, helping build his empire of exclusive nightclubs. For the first time, I have something that's truly mine to shape, to build. My attention shifts to the entrance, and my pulse kicks up. Olivia. She came. The photographer who dared stand up to me, who makes me want things I've never allowed myself to consider.

But before she can make her way across the floor, some suit-wearing pretty boy steps into her path. I watch his practiced smile, the way he leans in too close against the backdrop of twinkling lights. My jaw clenches when he pulls out a business card, all smooth gestures and well-rehearsed charm.

Mic catches my expression and chuckles. "Easy, brother. Your eyes are going to burn a hole through that poor bastard's skull."

"He touches her, he loses the hand." The words come out as a growl.

"Damn." Mic's eyebrows shoot up. "This one's different, isn't she? Never seen you like this over a woman."

He's right. I've spent my life being the enforcer, the one who handles problems, the one who carved out respect for our branch of the family tree after our father nearly destroyed it. Romance wasn't part of the plan. Then Olivia walked into that pre-wedding meeting, all fire and determination, and something inside me shifted.

Some women attend church on Christmas Eve. Others wrap last-minute presents or sing carols with their families. But Olivia—she shows up at my club, fierce and independent, making every Christmas light dim in comparison. She's freed her hair from that severe bun, dark waves cascading past her shoulders. Even in her simple black dress—probably the only one she packed—she outshines every other woman in the room. Not because she's trying, but because she isn't. When she finally extracts herself from pretty boy and spots me, her hand lifts in an uncertain wave before she catches herself, teeth pulling at her bottom lip.

That gesture hits me in the gut. I'm used to being feared, respected. Used to being the hardest bastard in any room. But watching her, I want to be gentle. My youngest brother Jake—Father Jake now, the family saint who chose collar and cross over Family business—told me once that I needed my own family, not just the one I serve. I'd laughed it off. But seeing Olivia sass me in that first meeting, watching her now... Jake's words won't leave me alone.

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