Chapter 2 - The Weight of a Monster’s Hand
The ballroom of the St. Jude Hotel hummed with a nervous, artificial vibrancy, but within a five-foot radius of Vincent Costa, the atmosphere turned to liquid nitrogen.
Jimmy O’Connor stopped three paces away. His broad, ruddy face remained stretched into that practiced, politician-style grin, but his pale blue eyes darted downward, registering the precise placement of Vincent’s hand against the small of Sadi’s back.
It was a territorial display as old as human history, executed with the cold, effortless precision of a man who owned the air other people breathed.
“Didn’t expect to see you bringing a date to a charity function, Vincent,” Jimmy said, his voice dropping an octave as he forced a hollow chuckle. “Especially someone... new. Usually, you prefer to keep business strictly business.”
Sadi felt the muscles across her shoulders lock. She kept her chin up, staring fixedly at the lapel of Jimmy’s tailored black tuxedo, praying to any god that would listen that her knees wouldn't buckle under her. She could feel the hard planes of Vincent’s chest pressing against her back, radiating heat that contrasted sharply with the icy terror freezing her veins.
Vincent did not look at Jimmy immediately. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his amber bourbon, letting the silence stretch out like a rack being tightened.
“People change, Jimmy,” Vincent said at last, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the string quartet playing softly in the corner. “And sometimes, things that belong in the background come forward. You know how it is. We collect what we value.”
The implication hung in the air between them, sharp and jagged as a broken bottle.
Jimmy’s grin flickered for a fraction of a second—just a microscopic twitch at the corner of his mouth—before he locked it back into place. He shifted his gaze to Sadi, his eyes crawling over her emerald silk dress like greasy fingers.
“Well,” Jimmy said smoothly, though a faint sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead. “Whoever she is, she’s got good taste. Hope she knows what she’s walking into. Some things aren't always as valuable as they look, Vincent. Sometimes they’re just... liabilities.”
Before Jimmy could finish the sentence, Vincent’s grip on Sadi’s waist tightened so hard it briefly bruised her ribs.
It wasn't a warning to her. It was a death sentence delivered to the man standing in front of them.
“Careful, Jimmy,” Vincent murmured, his dark eyes finally rising to meet O’Connor’s. There was no heat in them, only the absolute, bottomless dark of an open grave. “You’re talking about mine now. And I don’t like people running inventory on my property.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Jimmy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply against his starched white collar. He took a half-step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
“Just making conversation, Vincent. No disrespect intended. Enjoy your evening.”
Without waiting for an answer, Jimmy turned on his heel and walked away, his three heavyset guards parting the crowd around him like wake behind a speedboat.
Sadi let out a ragged breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her knees felt weak, and her head spun.
“You okay?” Vincent’s voice murmured against her hair, so low only she could hear it.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” she whispered back, staring blindly at the floor.
“Don’t. The carpet is expensive, and Paulie hates cleaning up.” Vincent’s hand shifted slightly, his thumb brushing against her hipbone in a gesture that was shockingly intimate for a man who looked like he spent his weekends burying bodies. “We stay for twenty more minutes. We let everyone see that you are untouchable. Then we leave.”
May you like
Sadi nodded stiffly, leaning just a fraction of an inch closer to him.
For the first time all night, she realized something terrifying: the monster she had asked to protect her wasn't just shielding her from the wolves. He was wrapping her in a cage of his own. And worse... she didn't want to step out of it.
