Vincent’s dark eyes locked onto hers, cold and calculated, yet burning with an unreadable intensity. The bass continued to thump through the velvet-lined walls of the club, but in their small orbit, time had entirely stopped.

The grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a blinding display of wealth, power, and hidden daggers. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above men in bespoke tuxedos and women draped in millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds.

When the heavy oak doors opened and Vincent Moretti walked in, the entire room went dead silent.

Beside him, Nora took a breath. She wore a floor-length emerald silk gown that hugged every curve, its deep color contrasting sharply with her pale skin and dark hair. Her bruised wrist was concealed under elegant satin gloves. Diamond drops hung from her ears—courtesy of Vincent’s vault.

Vincent held his arm out, and Nora slipped her hand through it.

“Eyes up, sweetheart,” Vincent murmured under his breath, his face a mask of aristocratic indifference. “They’re watching for a crack in the armor. Give them nothing.”

“Cameron threatened my brother,” Nora whispered through a fake, radiant smile as they glided down the grand staircase. “He sent a picture of Leo in Boston. He gave me forty-eight hours.”

Vincent’s arm muscles tightened slightly, but his facial expression never changed. He smiled charmingly at a passing judge, nodding in greeting, before leaning back toward Nora.

“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

“Because I didn’t know if I could trust you,” she whispered back. “You’re using me for your reputation, Vincent. Leo is my family.”

“If Cameron touches a hair on your brother’s head, he dies,” Vincent said, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, and entirely terrifying. “My team is already in Boston. Leo was secured two hours ago and moved to a safehouse in Maine. Cameron’s men in Boston are currently sitting in the bottom of the Charles River.”

Nora froze, her eyes wide as she looked up at him. “You... you did that?”

“I told you. You are under my protection. That extends to what belongs to you.” Vincent stopped near the VIP bar, taking two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray and handing one to her. “Now, drink. The lion is entering the den.”

An elderly man with silver hair and a walking cane approached them, accompanied by three hulking bodyguards. It was Don Salvatore Rossi, the head of the rival Rossi crime family—and the man rumoured to be funding Cameron’s legal shield.

“Vincent,” Rossi sneered, his voice like grinding stones. “I heard a ridiculous rumor that you picked up a stray from a nightclub floor. I didn’t believe it until I saw her standing here in emeralds.”

Rossi’s icy gaze drifted down Nora, evaluating her like cheap merchandise. “She’s pretty, but fragile. A weakness for a man who claims to rule the docks.”

Nora felt her temper surge. She remembered Vincent’s words: When you are with me, you look down on everyone else.

Nora took a slow sip of her champagne, tilted her head, and smiled at Rossi with cold condescension.

“Mr. Rossi, isn’t it?” Nora asked smoothly. “It’s funny you call me a weakness. Vincent brought me here tonight because he likes fine things. Meanwhile, your men spent the last three hours trying to locate your hijacked shipments down at Pier 42. You might want to check your phone... I hear the water is cold this time of year.”

Rossi’s face turned bright red with rage. His hand tightened on his cane.