Page 62 of Ruthless

I monitor her from my post behind a bronzed Greek sculpture. Dressed in black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt, I blend in with the rest of the catering staff. Most are hired on a gig-by-gig basis, so none of them really know one another. Perfect for my purposes.

A member of my team, Ricardo, is a pro at special effects makeup. He even has a YouTube channel dedicated to his hobby. Using silicone prosthetics, Ricky widened my nose and rounded the shape of my jaw. In my simple black-rimmed glasses, I could probably pass as Clark Kent. With my new face and a waiter’s stolen uniform, someone would need to examine me carefully to identify me. And if there’s one thing I know about the wealthy, it’s that most of them don’t pay any attention to the less fortunate.

For a few seconds, Sara vanishes into the crowd. Her golden head pops out about fifteen feet away, her hair gleaming in the display lighting. She appears to be on a trajectory that will leadher closer to me. Sure enough, she navigates in my direction, and when she stops a few feet away, I cease breathing.

Already risqué, the neckline of her dress somehow turned into a direct invitation to sin somewhere between the Monet and the Renoir.

I shoot a glare at Mario Antonio, who’s staring at her tits with so much focus, he may as well buy them dinner. In fact, I’m pretty sure I spy drool on the corner of his mouth.

Bastard. If I weren’t incognito, I’d introduce him to my fist.

“Sara,” I hiss. “Fix your neckline.”

When her hand drifts up, I expel a relieved sigh. Then I almost choke as, instead of covering up more, the little minx pushes the material farther to the side, exposing even more of her cleavage.

With a sparkle in her eyes, she aims a subtle wink at me before sashaying off with an added swing to her hips. The blond curls cascading over one shoulder have me fantasizing about pressing my lips and teeth to her supple skin. My cock swells painfully against my zipper at the thought.

Oh,tesoro. You’ll pay for that later.

My hand tightens around my phone. This entire plan is driving me crazy, mainly because I hate my lack of control. The powerlessness evoked here reminds me too much of being locked up. Unfortunately, I have no way of assuaging my hang-ups tonight. The outcome is entirely out of my hands, and in order for any of this to work, I’m putting more faith in Sara than I’ve ever put in anyone.

The truth is that relying on her comes more naturally than distrusting her. She could betray me ten times over, and I’d probably keep coming back for more because that’s how much she has me coiled around her little finger.

Sara has always been my obsession, my favorite drug, and now I hope that bringing her deeper into my world wasn’t a mistake.

Materializing out of nowhere, a girl in a server’s uniform elbows me in the ribs, and I nearly drop my phone. I spin and glare at her, but apparently she’s too miffed to read the promise of pain in my gaze. With her crisp, starched shirt and her hair pulled back into a tight, sleek bun, she clearly takes her job very seriously. A proverbial queen of the New York City catering scene.

The girl’s hazel eyes dart between mine and my phone, and she scoffs. “What the hell, man?” Her voice is clipped and irritated. “We’re out here working our asses off, and you’re what? Having phone sex?Here.”She shoves an empty silver platter into my abdomen, and I grunt. “Take this into the kitchen. Escobar has three dozen ceviche shooters that need to go outnow.”

The girl’s gone before I can utter a word. When my gaze swings back toward Sara, I find her inspecting a plaque under a canvas of splattered paint. I suppose the Catering Queen has a point. After all, I’m trying to fly under the radar. So, I slip my phone into my shirt pocket, with the microphone pointing up, and adjust the platter in my palm to give off the impression that I’ve been doling out dozens of ceviche shooters.

While not perfect, this setup will do for now.

Clearing my throat, I talk Sara through another three introductions, giving her a glimpse into more of the key players in the room. Sara doesn’t shy away or stumble over her words once, almost as if she belongs within these circles of dangerous men.

“We wouldn’t be able to sanction a union like that, regardless of how attached you might be. It’s too much of a risk.”

Pantalone’s comment from a few weeks ago creeps into my head, but his insidious voice fades the longer Sara works the party. For the next hour, we keep a low profile, at least until I spot a few of the Contis lingering in front of an exhibit about ancient Egypt.

The whole brood is present, including Bianca, her sister Livia, and their father Aldo, the don of the Conti family. His hair is gelled back, and the width of his shoulders stretch the material of his suit. The sight of him, looking the same as he did in my mother’s photo, ices my blood.

Aldo speaks in hushed tones to an older man by a statuette of a hippo goddess, while Livia giggles with her friends, all of them holding sparkling pink drinks.

Bianca stands off to the side with several guards at her six, but the isolation fits with her reputation. I point everyone out to Sara, one by one. “The woman in the middle, in the red, is Bianca Conti. The Ice Princess.”

A server stops beside Sara with a plate of hors d’oeuvres and waits patiently while my girl scrutinizes them. At my words, Sara cocks her head to one side, presumably confused by Bianca’s glacial moniker.

I sidestep a passing couple and then stop near one of the pop-up bars. “She’s a capo-in-training, one of the only females in the family to earn the privilege, and the daughter of the current Conti boss. Believe me, the name suits her.”

With a smile to the server, Sara picks up a prosciutto-wrapped fig, tosses it in her mouth, and then sets her now-empty champagne flute aside. Once I clock the determined set of her chin and shoulders, my hackles go up.

She’s about to do something disruptive.

Sure enough, Sara pivots on her heel and heads directly for Bianca. The thought of the two of them together sends my heart crawling out of my ass.

“What the hell are you doing?” My hiss draws an alarmed glance from an old woman in a sequin dress, but I continue searching for somewhere else to watch whatever Sara is up to. She weaves through the crowd with purpose. Bianca clocks her instantly, her eyes flashing with interest.Fuck.“Sara. You’re coming in too hot. Less nurse on her rounds and more rich girl with nothing else to do on a Saturday night.”

The warning must register because Sara slows, her advance becoming more languid. She greets Bianca with a demure dip of her head, and while I can’t hear a word, the two speak with enthusiasm. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Bianca Conti crack a smile. I didn’t even think the woman knew how, though people claim the same exact thing about me. I drift closer, taking my time lest one of the Contis notices my approach.