Chapter 1 - The Shadow in the Champagne Glass
“Left the conversation,” I repeated, the words tasting slightly bitter against the back of my throat. I looked down at my wine, watching the amber light of the bar catch the swirling liquid. “I suppose I did. It’s a habit I’ve picked up recently. Leaving before I’m asked to.”
The man beside me didn't flinch. He didn’t offer the empty, patronizing sympathy most men used when a woman hinted at a wound. Instead, he simply gestured to the bartender. Without a word, a fresh bottle of the exact vintage I was drinking appeared, alongside a heavy crystal glass filled with dark, amber bourbon for himself.
“A bad habit,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, cutting through the low hum of the jazz music playing overhead. “Particularly for a woman who makes her living arguing in rooms where leaving isn’t an option.”
My hand froze on the stem of my glass. I turned my head slowly, my eyes narrowing as I looked at him. The dim lighting of the Tribeca lounge caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the impeccable tailoring of his charcoal suit, and the absolute lack of fear in his eyes.
“You know who I am,” I said. It wasn’t a question. As a senior litigation partner at one of the city's most ruthless firms, my face was public, but not this public. Not to strangers in a random bar at midnight.
“Scarlett Vance,” he said, pronouncing my name with a slow, deliberate cadence that made a shiver trace its way down my spine. “You don't lose cases, you don't compromise, and until about forty-five minutes ago, you lived in a penthouse three blocks from here with a man who doesn’t deserve the air you breathe.”
A cold dread pooled in my stomach, instantly replacing the warmth of the alcohol. “Who are you?”
Before he could answer, the heavy wooden doors of the lounge swung open. The ambient noise of the bar died instantly. Three men walked in. They didn’t look like the usual Tribeca crowd. They wore heavy coats despite the humidity outside, and their hands stayed buried deep within their pockets. The air in the room grew suffocatingly thin.
The man beside me didn’t even turn around. He merely took a slow sip of his bourbon.
“Dominic,” the lead man said, stopping exactly two paces behind our stools. The authority in his voice was thick, laced with an accent that carried the cold grit of Eastern Europe. “We need to talk. Now. The docks in Brooklyn—there is a problem with the shipment.”
Dominic. The name hit me like a physical blow.
My mind, trained to connect dots and recall high-profile cases, immediately flashed to the sealed indictments, the whispered rumors in the federal courthouse, and the names that federal prosecutors feared to even utter aloud. Dominic Rossi. The undisputed head of the Rossi Syndicate. The man who owned the docks, the politicians, and the very ground I was standing on.
I was sitting next to the most powerful mafia boss in the state.
Dominic didn’t look back. He kept his eyes fixed on the mirror behind the bar, watching the reflection of the three men.
“I told you I was waiting for someone,” Dominic said softly, his voice carrying a terrifying weight that made the men behind him visibly stiffen. “And I do not like being interrupted when I am finally enjoying the view.”
The lead man glanced at me, his eyes turning vicious. “She’s a distraction, boss. We have a crisis.”
Dominic set his glass down on the marble counter. The sound was no louder than a whisper, but it echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp against the shadows.
“If you ever refer to a guest of mine as a distraction again,” Dominic murmured, his voice deadly calm, “I will ensure you never have to worry about the Brooklyn docks, or breathing, ever again. Now, step outside. I will deal with you when I am finished.”
The three men bowed their heads—not out of respect, but out of sheer, unadulterated terror. They backed away slowly, exiting the bar as quickly as they had arrived.
The bartender was white-faced, gripping a rag so tightly his knuckles were bloodless.
Dominic turned his full attention back to me. The dangerous aura that had just filled the room seemed to pull back, locking itself behind his dark eyes. He looked at me, waiting for me to run. He expected me to grab my purse, scream, or flee back to the cheating husband who had broken my heart.
Instead, I took a deep breath, picked up my glass of wine, and took a long, deliberate sip. My heart was pounding against my ribs, but my hands were completely steady.
“You’re a dangerous man, Mr. Rossi,” I said, looking him dead in the eye.
A slow, dark smile spread across his face. It was the first genuine emotion I had seen on him.
“And you are a very brave woman, Mrs. Vance,” he replied. “Or a very desperate one.”
“I’m a lawyer,” I corrected, leaning in slightly. “We don't get desperate. We get even. And right now, I think you and I have a lot to talk about.”
Dominic’s smile widened, his eyes flashing with an predatory intensity. “Then let us start with this: your husband’s open marriage proposal wasn’t his idea. It was Ashley’s. And they aren't just sleeping together, Scarlett. They are planning to take everything you own.”
May you like
My breath caught. The room seemed to tilt.
Before I could ask him how he knew, Dominic stood up, offering me his hand. “Come with me. Let’s go somewhere where we can rewrite the rules of your marriage.”
