Chapter Seven: The Gala With Knives Under The Table
The charity gala glittered like a lie.
Crystal.
Champagne.
Violins.
Men who funded hospitals with one hand and broke kneecaps with the other.
Alara entered on Matteo’s arm.
Every conversation bent toward them.
She felt cameras.
Whispers.
Women with diamond throats.
Men with dead eyes.
Matteo’s hand rested lightly at her back.
Not claiming.
Guiding.
He had learned.
Or was trying.
That was worse for her anger.
Greco stood near the bar in a white dinner jacket.
Bold.
Insulting.
Smiling as if the city belonged to whoever dared laugh loudest.
His eyes moved over Alara.
“Doctor Quinn.”
“Greco.”
“No nanny tonight?”
“No leash tonight?”
His smile twitched.
Matteo’s fingers flexed once at her back.
Alara stepped forward before he could.
“You look nervous.”
Greco laughed.
“I look rich.”
“Cheap men often do from a distance.”
A few nearby guests heard.
Silence spread in rings.
Greco’s eyes hardened.
“There’s the mouth.”
“There’s the insecurity.”
Matteo looked down.
Not hiding amusement well enough.
Greco leaned closer.
“Careful. He ruins women.”
Alara held his gaze.
“You sound experienced.”
“He left you once.”
The words hit.
Greco saw it.
His smile returned.
“You didn’t know I knew?”
Alara said nothing.
He moved in.
“He begged us not to touch you.”
Matteo went still.
Greco’s eyes flicked toward him.
Then back to Alara.
“Pathetic, really. The great Duca on his knees, bleeding on a clinic floor, offering territory for a girl with a needle.”
The gala noise faded.
Alara’s hand tightened around her glass.
Greco enjoyed himself.
“He said, take the docks. Take the west route. Just leave the doctor breathing.”
Matteo’s face had gone pale beneath control.
There.
The truth.
Not from Matteo.
From the villain too proud not to gloat.
Alara looked at Matteo.
His eyes did not defend.
They confessed.
Greco laughed softly.
“And then he threw you away anyway.”
Alara set down her glass.
“No.”
Greco blinked.
“He paid you to make him look cruel.”
The smile left his face.
“He gave you territory.”
Matteo’s hand closed around her wrist.
Too late.
Alara turned back to Greco.
“And you still lost.”
Greco’s mouth flattened.
“You know nothing.”
“I know men like you only reveal secrets when they think the knife is already in.”
She leaned closer.
“Where is it?”
For one second, Greco’s gaze flicked upward.
Balcony.
Left side.
Alara moved.
“Gun!”
Matteo pulled her down as the shot cracked through the chandelier.
Glass rained across the ballroom.
Screams erupted.
Matteo’s body covered hers.
Heavy.
Warm.
Too still.
Alara felt wet heat against her palm.
Blood.
His.
“No.”
He tried to rise.
Failed.
The bullet had entered below the collarbone.
Not clean.
Not shallow.
Alara tore his jacket open.
“Stay with me.”
His eyes found hers.
“Bossy.”
“Bleed less.”
“Trying.”
Bruno’s men swept the balcony.
Guests stampeded.
Greco vanished into the chaos.
Alara pressed both hands to Matteo’s wound.
Blood pushed between her fingers.
Five years ago, same man.
Different floor.
Same terror.
Matteo’s hand found her wrist.
“Alara.”
“Do not say goodbye.”
“Wasn’t.”
“What then?”
His breath hitched.
“Your glasses are crooked.”
A laugh broke from her.
Half sob.
Half fury.
She pressed harder.
“You absolute bastard.”
His mouth softened.
Then his eyes rolled back.
The wound that had separated them opened beneath her hands.
This time, everyone watched her choose to save him.
