Page 8 of Tormented Oath

The universe, it seems, has a sick sense of humor.

Because Stefano Rega is walking toward me.

And he's looking at me like he's seen a ghost.

Time stops, or maybe my brain does. Kira words are now registering.

This can't be happening. They were adamant that Stefano had one of his men run the club. A Mafia don can’t afford to expose himself so publicly on a regular basis. Why is Stefano willing to do so?

Stefano.

Stefano is here. He’s not just the owner of the club, he apparently manages it.

The Fiori family played me perfectly. They omitted this fact because they knew I would definitely be hired once Stefano saw me. And they also knew I would never have agreed to this job if I knew he would actually be at the club.

He's standing in the shadows of the VIP section, and even from here, I can feel the weight of his stare.

Gone is the wild-haired boy who kissed me in moonlit gardens. This Stefano is all sharp edges and controlled power.

Run, every instinct screams. But my feet won't move.

I force myself to breathe, to think. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it echoing through the silence that followed my music cut. The Fioris knew exactly what I'd be walking into.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I straighten, willing my hands not to shake. A decade of running cons has taught me how to keep my face neutral, my body language controlled, even when I’m worried or scared. But all that training burns away under his gaze.

From the corner of my eye, I see one of the security guards approaching him, papers in hand. Probably about the next audition.

But Stefano doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He just watches me with an intensity that makes my knees go weak.

I've done enough cons to know when I'm in over my head, and right now I'm drowning.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

CHAPTERTWO

Stefano

The music cutsoff mid-beat at my command, and my world stops turning.

I can't breathe.

The woman on my stage—it can't be her. But I'd recognize that face anywhere. Those eyes have haunted my dreams for a decade. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to break free.

Ava.

Fucking hell. Ava.

Time stretches like heated glass as she straightens from her final pose, chest rising sharply with each breath, dark hair spilling over bare shoulders.

Why has she resurfaced now? And why the hell is she dancing in my club?

The Ava I knew spent her free time reading Nietzsche and arguing about philosophy, while dreaming of college and a life beyond our families' bloody legacies. She was brilliant, fierce, and destined for more than this.

The rational part of my brain registers the changes in her—the lean muscle that wasn't there at sixteen, the graceful confidence in her movements, the sharp edge of wariness in her stance.

But the rest of me is drowning in recognition, in hunger, in a possessive need so fierce, it threatens to shatter my carefully maintained control.

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