Page 72 of Lethal Vows

I feel stunned for a moment that he remembers that long ago. The memory for me is vague at best. But instead, I shrug as I collect another flute and say, “Turns out I have more to drink about now than I did back then.”

He chuckles as we walk through the house, where hundreds of people are laughing and smoking cigars, drinking, and some are already feral off God only knows what drugs.

In the backyard, there are even more people spread out. Women in bikinis and shirtless men jump into and laze around the pool. Others are polished in their finest as they idly chat at tables where trays of food and drinks are being offered.

I flick a glance at Crue’s men, who not-so-casually blend in as they walk behind us. But we’re not the only ones with security. Despite being at a party, everyone is on edge. Power ripples through the atmosphere. It reminds me of the parties I was forced to join with my father and all the unruly men who made me uncomfortable with the way they looked at me, even at sixteen. But I doubt with Crue at my side, they will consider looking at me twice. And that’s not so much a comfort as it is a warning.

Finally, a familiar face appears through the crowd. Dawson is wearing his usual stark-white suit as he escorts a woman who looks to be in her mid-forties. I don’t need to know her name to realize she’s a Torrisi. Her sharp green gaze pins me with a stare and then moves to Crue.

“Crue, you made it after all,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. And then she turns to me. “And I hear I have a lot to thank you for, bailing out my foolish nephew for his misdeeds.”

Nephew. So that means she’s Andreas’s sister. “It’s not yet a won case. But, yes, I’m feeling confident. Rya Ricci.” I offer my hand.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “How untraditional not to take the husband’s name.” I’m taken aback by that comment, but don’t let it show on my face. She curls her hand around mine. “Francesca Torrisi. I hope you enjoy your evening. There’s always plenty to see.” A mischievous twinkle dances in her gaze as she looks at Crue.

And there’s something in her stare that I feel uneasy about. I push down that feeling. No, Crue is a powerful man. Of course, people are attracted to that. And I hate myself even more that it’s a misgiving of mine because I shouldn’t care.

“How about you take a seat with me, Rya.” Dawson thankfully draws my attention.

“Shall I take you to Andreas?” Francesca asks Crue.

His gaze flashes between Dawson and me, a prickly sensation crawling up my skin.

Crue leans in, his kiss feather-light against my cheek. “I’ll be back, princess. Enjoy the party while I’m gone.”

Dawson offers his elbow to me. I take it, unable to avoid looking over my shoulder at Crue. I notice that only one of his men follows him, and the other sticks with me and Dawson. I can’t help but think how calculated this all feels. But when it comes to Crue, what else is to be expected?

“You need to find new friends, you realize that, right?” I say to Dawson as he takes me to a small table, slightly more secluded and quieter than those in the middle of the patio. A gentle water fountain trickles behind us, which would normally be calming, but the noise only aggravates me further.

He chuckles as he offers his flute to mine in cheers.

I like Dawson. There’s a remarkably charming and calming element to him. But that’s what makes him dangerous. It’s a trained façade. A man like Dawson, who is associated with someone like Crue, comes from a place where questions should not be asked.

“If memory serves correctly, you seem to like my friend very, very much,” he says.

I scoff. “I like his body very, very much.”

Dawson goes quiet for a moment, contemplative even as he looks over his shoulder. “You do know he’s in love with you?”

What feels like a rash immediately climbs up my skin, and I cough, enduring another mouthful of champagne as I wave someone over for another.

“Someone like Crue doesn’t know how to love,” I say as I swap out the empty glass for a full one.

He considers me. “I’m not going to argue with that. But he has never brought anyone to these types of events, representing him in this way.”

“Please,” I huff. “The problem with men like Crue is they can bring anyone to these events and still leave with whoever they want.”

“He might have brought women on his elbow, but none of whom anyone remembered their names after the event was done. And boy, did he have a type.”

“A type?”

“Oh, you know. Caramel blonde, light eyes, pretty face.” His gaze locks with mine. And there’s no disputing the fact that Dawson is beautiful, but his insinuation unnerves me more.

“Trust me when I say I know the difference between love and infatuation,” Dawson adds.

“He would kill you if he knew you were telling me this.”

He shrugs nonchalantly as he eyes other partygoers. “Then let’s hope you’re good at keeping secrets. And I’m doing this more for my friend because I know he will burn this city alive if he can’t have you.”

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