My Sister Humiliated Me At The Gala — Then The City’s Most Dangerous Boss Crossed The Room For Me

Part 1

Music thrummed through the floorboards, vibrating against the soles of my cheap, pinching shoes.

“Look at you,” Heather whispered, her breath hot and smelling faintly of expensive gin and lime.

“Nobody wants you here.”

“You’re a stain on the upholstery.”

It was a familiar cruelty, easy to swallow.

My stomach was already rolling, a tight knot of acid and cheap coffee from that morning.

I kept my eyes fixed on the scuff mark on the toe of my left heel.

It was black shoe polish hastily applied in the bathroom of our cramped apartment three hours ago.

I was trying to mask the fact that I was wearing three-year-old pumps to the most exclusive syndicate gala of the decade.

“Stop slouching,” Heather hissed close to my ear.

I didn’t flinch.

I just straightened my spine, feeling the satin pinch the skin under my arms.

Heather stepped into my peripheral vision, smelling of Chanel and ozone.

Her blonde hair was sprayed into a rigid, immaculate wave that didn’t move when she tilted her head.

She was wearing emerald green velvet that caught the chandelier light like deep water.

Everything always fit Heather perfectly.

Our family’s remaining credit cards were entirely dedicated to ensuring it did.

“I’m not slouching,” I said, my voice flat.

I carried the gravelly exhaustion of someone who had worked a nine-hour shift at a floral warehouse before being dragged into a corset.

“You’re shrinking,” she corrected, taking a slow sip from her champagne flute.

She didn’t even look at me.

Her eyes were darting across the room, cataloging the wealthy, the dangerous, the useful.

“Then let me go home,” I muttered.

I rubbed my thumb against the side of my index finger, feeling the rough, calloused skin there.

A thorn prick from yesterday had scabbed over.

I pressed a nail into the scab, grounding myself with the tiny, sharp pain.

“I don’t even know why dad made me come.”

Heather let out a short, nasal laugh.

“He brought you because it looks good.”

“Family unity.”

“It paints a picture of stability for the board.”

She finally turned her head, looking me up and down with clinical disdain.

Her gaze rested on the frayed hem of my blue satin dress.

“It’s just a shame you ruin the aesthetic,” she whispered, stepping closer.

“I’ll just stay out of the way,” I said, turning my face back toward the pillar.

“See that you do.”

She adjusted a diamond clip in her hair.

“The Russo family is supposed to send a representative tonight.”

“If by some miracle one of them looks this way, I don’t want your depressing face ruining the lighting.”

Heather drifted away, seamlessly sliding into a group of laughing women.

Her face instantly broke into a dazzling, hollow smile.

I let out a shaky breath, leaning my head back against the marble.

The noise of the ballroom washed over me, a cacophony of fake laughter and clinking crystal.

I felt a profound, heavy exhaustion settle in my bones.

I just wanted to take off the shoes.

I picked at the scab on my finger again.

A tiny bead of dark red broke the surface.

I watched it well up, fascinated by the stark color against my pale skin.

Then the air in the room changed.

It wasn’t a sudden silence.

It was a slow suffocation of sound, like a heavy blanket had been thrown over a microphone.

The laughter at the tables nearest the grand double doors sputtered and died.

The silence moved like a wave rippling across the ballroom.

Even the string quartet faltered, the cellist dragging a discordant note before abruptly halting.

I looked up from my bleeding finger.

The heavy oak doors at the top of the carpeted stairs were open.

The room was holding its collective breath.

He didn’t make an entrance.

He simply arrived, and the room was forced to rearrange itself around his gravity.

Dan Russo walked down the carpeted stairs.

His gait was heavy and measured, the slow walk of a man who refused to show fatigue.

He was wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that lacked the shiny flare of the cartel boys.

It was matte, quiet, and absolutely lethal.

My breath hitched slightly, a sudden primal spike of adrenaline shooting through my veins.

Russo was a broad man, his shoulders stretching the wool of his jacket.

His face looked like it had been carved out of something unyielding and left out in the rain.

He had a strong, slightly crooked nose and a small, jagged silver scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

The silence in the room was absolute now.

I could hear the faint electrical hum of the chandeliers.

Beside the ice sculpture of a swan, I saw my father nervously dabbing his sweating forehead.

Across the room, Heather had stiffened.

Her spine was rigid, her chin tilted up, perfectly positioning her neck to catch the light.

She looked like a mannequin waiting to be bought.

Russo scanned the room with dark, flat, entirely uninterested eyes.

He wasn’t looking at the glittering dresses.

He looked at the exits, the sightlines, the shadows.

Then his gaze swept across the marble pillar.

He stopped.

I froze.

My heart gave a violent, painful thud against my ribs, knocking the breath out of me.

He was looking at me.

No, not looking.

Staring.

It was the heavy, assessing stare of a man who had spotted something entirely out of place.

Fifty feet and hundreds of people separated us, but the weight of his attention felt physical.

I swallowed hard, tasting bile and cheap mints.

I suddenly became hyper-aware of the loose thread hanging from the bodice of my dress.

I wanted to look away.

Every instinct screamed at me to drop my chin and hide in the shadow of the pillar.

But a stubborn, cynical anger flared in my gut.

I was already the joke of the room.

I wasn’t going to cower just because the apex predator decided to look at me.

So, I stared back.

I leveled my gaze, my jaw setting into a hard, unimpressed line.

Russo’s left eyebrow twitched just a fraction.

Then he started walking.

The crowd parted for him before he even had to ask.

Men pulled their wives back by the elbows.

Waiters pressed themselves flat against the walls.

He was walking toward the right side of the room, toward the pillar, toward Heather.

I let out a slow, shaky breath, releasing the tension in my shoulders.

Of course, he wasn’t looking at the girl in the ill-fitting blue dress.

He was looking at the emerald-clad siren standing ten feet in front of me.

Heather realized it, too.

She adjusted her posture, offering a slight, demure angle of her hip.

She practically vibrated with victory.

Russo’s heavy footsteps ate up the distance.

He smelled like rain, wet asphalt, and expensive tobacco.

He reached Heather.

She parted her glossy lips, her voice dropping into a practiced, sultry purr.

“Mr. Russo, it is an absolute honor.”

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t even break his stride.

He walked straight past Heather, so close the draft fluttered her blonde hair.

Her mouth hung open, her welcoming smile freezing into a mask of pure shock.

Russo kept walking.

He stopped in front of the marble pillar.

He stopped in front of me.

Up close, he was massive, casting me entirely in his shadow.

I stared at the knot of his charcoal silk tie.

The silence in the ballroom had shifted to completely horrified.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

I slowly raised my eyes, tracing his rough jaw up to his mouth.

“What?” I managed to say, my voice cracking.

He slowly lifted his right hand.

He reached out, taking my right hand in an immovable grip.

His skin was warm, dry, and rough as sandpaper.

He lifted my hand, turning my palm upward to expose my thumb.

The bead of blood from the picked scab had smeared.

He pulled a dark gray linen handkerchief from his pocket.

He pressed the fabric against my thumb.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“It’s just a scratch,” I muttered, my face burning as the entire room watched.

“I work with roses.”

“Thorns,” he said flatly. “It’s getting on the dress.”

“The dress is a rental,” I argued, fueled by panicked adrenaline.

His muddy hazel eyes met mine, cold and calculating.

“It’s not your dress,” he observed, his voice meant only for me.

“It pulls at the seams, and your shoes are cutting into your heels.”

I felt a flush of hot, prickly shame crawl up my neck.

“Are you done analyzing my poverty, or do you want to check my dental records, too?” I snapped.

Behind me, someone gasped.

Nobody spoke to Dan Russo like that.

I braced myself for the violence that hovered just beneath the surface of his tailored suits.

But he didn’t yell.

He kept the handkerchief, sliding it back into his pocket.

“You look like you’re going to pass out,” he said.

“I’m considering it,” I fired back. “It would certainly get me out of here.”

The ghost of a smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s go.”