Chapter 1 - The Shattered Glass
The phrase lingered against the shell of Vivien’s ear like cold steel coated in velvet. Pretend you love me. It was an order thrown into the teeth of sudden danger, yet inside the quiet, hidden chambers of Vivien Hart’s heart, it felt like an unbearable confession of what she had already been doing for three agonizing years. Dominic Russo took another deliberate step closer, his eyes cold and assessing as they raked over the emerald silk clinging to her curves. He was smiling, but it was the predatory smirk of a wolf that believed it had finally found the gap in the shepherd’s armor.
"She’s quiet, Matteo," Russo murmured smoothly, adjusting the heavy diamond signet ring on his finger. "Not the usual decorative plaything you parade around the harbor. Is she something special, or just a very pretty distraction while your shipping manifests fall behind schedule?"
Matteo’s jaw hardened into chiseled granite. He didn't answer right away. Instead, his large, calloused hand shifted from the small of Vivien’s back to wrap around her waist, pulling her flush against his side with possessive certainty. Vivien’s pulse hammered wildly against her ribs, but her training—the calm, unshakeable competence that had kept his empire running like clockwork—surged through her bloodstream. She didn't flinch. She let her hips align naturally against his tailored tuxedo, allowing her fingers to slide upward along the lapel of his two-thousand-dollar jacket.
"Mr. Russo, was it?" Vivien purred, letting a slow, amused drawl coat her voice. She tilted her chin up, projecting the unbothered confidence of a woman who knew she owned the fiercest man in the room. "Matteo doesn't parade me because I'm not on display. And as for our schedules, they run perfectly fine without your unnecessary concern."
Russo’s eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine irritation slipping through his cultivated veneer. Matteo looked down at her, a fierce, dark light flaring behind his onyx gaze. For a fraction of a second, the heavy tension in the ballroom receded, replaced by an electric charge between them that had nothing to do with rival mobsters or fake relationships.
Then Vivien caught the movement.
It was fifty feet away, in the shadow of the mezzanine archway beside the gilded service doors. While Matteo was locked in a staring contest with Russo, and while the four perimeter guards in earpieces were watching the ballroom entrances, a server carrying an empty brass tray adjusted his stance. Vivien had read human body language in the reception lobby for three years; she knew the difference between a tired waiter and a hired assassin shifting his weight to absorb recoil.
The brass tray tilted down. The black silhouette of a silenced semi-automatic cleared the waistband of the waiter's apron.
May you like
Vivien didn’t hesitate. She didn’t wait for Matteo’s security to notice. She leaned up on her toes as if moving in for a tender, whispered kiss, slipped her left hand into Matteo’s large palm, and hissed against his lips: "They’re watching. Twelve o’clock, balcony stairs—down!"
With all the strength in her body, she wrenched him sideways just as the first suppressed pop ripped through the music. Vivien’s elbow struck Matteo’s champagne flute, sending it spinning into the air. The heavy glass shattered across the polished marble, spraying vintage liquor over silk and stone as the bullet zipped through the exact pocket of empty air where Matteo’s head had rested a heartbeat before.
