"Don't Look at Him," the Mafia Boss Whispered Darkly, "Your Eyes Only Look at Me."

"Don't Look at Him," the Mafia Boss Whispered Darkly, "Your Eyes Only Look at Me."

The gallery opening was the kind of event I had no business attending. Crystal champagne flutes caught the light from chandeliers that probably cost more than my annual salary. Women draped in silk and diamonds laughed behind manicured hands while men in tailored suits discussed acquisitions—both art and otherwise—with the casual indifference of people who'd never worried about rent. I stood near the catering station, straightening my black vest for the hundredth time, trying to blend into the background the way all good servers were trained to do. Invisible. Forgettable. Just another pair of hands offering hors d'oeuvres to people who barely noticed I existed.

"Miss, could you bring more of those crab things? " A woman with a face pulled too tight by surgery gestured imperiously toward the kitchen. "Of course, ma'am. " I smiled the professional smile I'd perfected over three years of serving the wealthy. The smile that said I'm happy to help while my feet screamed in cheap heels and my stomach growled because I'd skipped lunch to make this shift. Isabella Chen. Twenty-four years old.

Art history degree gathering dust in a storage unit I could barely afford. Dreams of curating exhibitions replaced by the reality of passing canapés at them. My mother's medical bills had seen to that—stage four cancer didn't care about career aspirations. She'd been gone six months now. The bills remained. I pushed through the kitchen doors, letting the mask slip for just a moment. My reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator showed dark circles I'd tried to cover with drugstore concealer, hair pulled back so tight my scalp ached, and eyes that looked older than they should.

"Bella, you okay? " Marcus, the head server, touched my shoulder. "You've been off all night. " "I'm fine. Just tired. "

"The wolves are circling tonight," he said, lowering his voice. "Matteo Greco is here. " My hands stilled on the tray. Everyone in the service industry knew that name. Knew to avoid eye contact, to move quickly, to never, ever catch his attention. The Greco family didn't just collect art—they collected everything else the law said they shouldn't.

Drugs, weapons, people. "Which one is he? " I'd never actually seen him, just heard the whispered warnings.

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