Instead I want the secrets held in sad, dark eyes.

“Text me later,” I say, extricating myself from Patricia’s grip.

Screw Vail and G-Eazy. Screw Leo Morelli.

I want Eva.

That turns out to be a more difficult task than expected, however. She’s not mingling in the ballroom. She’s not helping elderly guests pick food from the buffet. She’s not even soothing a five-year-old heiress who’s crying because the pony took a shit.

I move through the throngs of people, smiling vaguely when people call me, returning a distracted handshake before plowing on. Where the hell is she? If they have her working in the goddamn kitchens again like a goddamn house elf, I’m going to lose it.

I’m passing through the large hallway leading to the art gallery when I see it—two members of the waitstaff gathering up broken glass from marble floors.

“What happened here?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

One of them widens her eyes. Nervous around a guest, maybe. Or nervous because of what just happened. There’s a sense of panic in the air, more than comes from a broken crystal glass. “N-nothing, sir. Only cleaning up a small mess. I was clumsy.”

“I don’t think you were clumsy,” I say, and she flinches even though my voice is soft. “But someone was. Where is he? Or she, I suppose? It could be either gender. Or neither of them, but somehow it’s always a man causing problems, isn’t it?”

She makes a small sound of denial, unwilling to share information. Except a quick dart of her eyes gives him away. Or her. I’ll find out soon enough. I stride across the gallery floor, the heels of my Ferragamo Angiolos tapping on the stone. A heavy wooden door with ornate scrollwork guards one of the many antechambers. Salons, you could call them. Drawing rooms. Old world places for gathering in small groups. Or motel rooms, as they’re more often called among the cousins, because they’re always available for a quick fuck. No one bothers you here.

I knock on the door, expecting to find a belligerent guest vomiting on the Aubusson. Or a rowdy couple baptising the leather armchair.

The sight that greets me makes my blood run cold.

Bryant fucking Morelli, the patriarch of this family, the ex-CEO of Morelli Holdings, the host of this little shindig, stands there, face red, cursing profusely.

With his hand around Eva’s wrist.

The skin around his grip has turned white from the pressure. There’s fear in her wide eyes. And pain written in the tight line of her lips. He’s hurting her.

And I see red.

Chapter Three

Eva Morelli

Damage control. That’s the only thing on my mind since my mother sent me from the ballroom. Your father. That was all she said. All she needed to say.