Page 7 of A Game So Reckless

Vodka, olive brine, and a splash of vermouth go into the shaker, which I slosh around vigorously. A stir with some ice, and then I pour the drink. I choose a nice plump olive from the jar, drop it in the glass, and take a gulp.

The smooth slide of the cold, briny alcohol down my throat tastes like… Not heaven, exactly. Something a little, well, dirtier. Something closer to what a girl like me from a family like mine deserves.

The chill of the drink is so satisfying. Especially with the air so hot and thick it practically feels like it’s painting itself on me.

Dario must be getting impatient waiting for his dinner delivery. With a huffy sigh through his nose, he gets up and starts loading up a plate before returning with it to his seat. He takes a big bite of a shrimp, and suddenly my appetite is entirely snuffed out. I come around the bar and sit across from him, holding nothing but my martini, having left my clutch and all the rest of the food on the bar.

Dario swallows his bite and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth before his gaze snags on my left hand where it rests in my lap.

“I need the ring back.”

I swirl my drink, trying not to get too hopeful that this might mean he’s breaking off the engagement. I can’t imagine either of our papàs would be happy about that. They’re the ones who decided on this marriage for us, after all.

“Oh?” I ask, sounding far away and disinterested to my own ears, like my voice is floating somewhere high above my body. “Why?”

“For the cameras down there. Do the whole getting down on one knee thing. But you obviously can’t be wearing the fucking ring already.” He says it like I’m an absolute imbecile, then puts his plate down and holds his hand out expectantly.

“So you’re going to propose – or pretend to, I guess – at the unveiling of your papà’s new condo building? How very romantic,” I say dryly.

He must not pick up on my sarcasm, because he merely gives an impatient shrug and says, “Yeah, that’s the point. Media loves all that romantic shit. Good photo op. Good press.”

“Fine.” I set my drink down on the low table beside my chair and yank off the ring. My hand immediately feels lighter. So light I know it has nothing to do with the actual weight of the piece of jewellery. I drop the giant rose gold and pink diamond monstrosity into his palm and foolishly wish that I didn’t have to take it back at the end of the night.

Dario unceremoniously dumps the ring into one of the pockets on his navy suit as I pick up my drink and take another large sip. I can feel the lazy pulse of the alcohol working its way through my blood now, and I sigh gently before sucking the olive into my mouth.

At the same moment, the elevator doors behind the bar goding!

“What the fuck?” Dario says, scowling and standing up. “The service elevator is locked down tonight. I put in the code myself. No one’s supposed to be coming up here.”

He’s right. No one is supposed to be coming up here. It’s why the guest elevator doors downstairs are being guarded by Curse and three of my papà’s biggest guys.

But no one’s guarding this one.

Figuring that Dario probably screwed up the code and it’s likely just a wayward server, I relax back against my chair and roll the olive between my tongue and teeth.

Dario takes a step in the direction of the elevator. The doors open.

And he freezes to the spot. The anger, along with all colour, drain from his face.

I hold the olive against my upper teeth and tip my head up to see who’s come.

It isn’t some pretty, lost server, like Persephone from downstairs.

It’s a man.

Maybe Dario and I have something in common after all. Because just like my pale fiancé, I go suddenly and entirely still at the sight of him. Like he’s paralysed me simply by opening those elevator doors.

And stepping out of them.

I’ve been around powerful men all my life. Murderers and millionaires make up the characters populating every page of my story. I’m used to them. At this point, I’m not even afraid of them.

But I’ve never felt a man cut himself into the world, intome, like this. My skin stings, my heart slams, and sweat beads between my breasts at his approach. Two steps, and he’s drenched in that not-quite-sunset-sunshine, his hard, tall, tattooed body illuminated in its plain white T-shirt and faded jeans and boots. His hair is the colour of rust and bold blood.

Dario’s been spooked into movement. His chaise tips and then clatters, sprawling on its side as he stumbles backwards and away.

“Darragh,” he pants, raising his hands like a shield.

And all at once, I know this man. This man who’s sliced his way into the scene with the silent terror of a knife.

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