Page 13 of Claimed At First Sight

For a moment, he takes my breath away.

He’s dressed as the occasion demands in a black suit that’s tailored to perfection, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie pulled tight at his throat. Every line is precise and deliberate, as if even his clothing follows rules he has no intention of ever breaking.

His hair is pushed back just enough to look effortless, his jaw clean and defined, his expression unreadable.

Men straighten as he passes, their attention sharpening, while women let their gazes linger a fraction longer than necessary, appreciation flickering openly across their faces.

I roll my eyes.

Men like him belong in rooms like this. This is their world, after all, while women stand exactly where they’re told, smiling on command.

My grip tightens on the railing. His entrance alone managed to irritate me.

My gaze returns to Mari. Her smile is still there, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I can see the strain behind it.

It’s enough to kill whatever brief attraction I felt toward the future Don of Chicago.

As if sensing my eyes on him, his head lifts and turns toward the top of the staircase. He finds me instantly… and doesn’t look away.

Goosebumps run down my arms at the intensity of his stare. I straighten my spine.

I will not be affected by him.

I descend the stairs at a measured pace, reaching the last few steps just as Mateo greets Maximo, drawing his attention away from me at last.

Good.

I move a little faster and slip past the edge of their interaction. I can still feel the weight of his presence, but I’m not close enough to be pulled into it.

A sigh of relief escapes me.

Get it together, girl. Don’t let him rattle you. He’s just a man. A self-assured, overconfident one.

I step fully into the main hall, absorbing the low hum of voices while I pretend nothing happened.

Because nothing did. The lingering burn of his gaze on my face does not count.

I walk deeper into the house, putting distance between me and the foyer, and enter the ballroom.

No one is dancing, of course. That would be inappropriate. Instead, the room is a sea of Mafia men in dark suits and women dripping in diamonds, while servers weave through them carrying trays of champagne and canapés.

I accept a flute mostly for something to do with my hands.

“So,” a gorgeous woman beside me says, her eyes flicking toward the entrance. “That would be the infamous Maximo Marco.”

She has a strong South American accent and is likely a spouse, daughter, or mistress of one of our allies from the cartel side of the business. I wonder which.

If she’s a spouse, she’s being remarkably bold about admiring another man. Men in our circles aren’t exactly known for being forgiving when it comes to their property.

I glance over despite myself.

Maximo is flanked by Aldo and a few other men I recognize from family functions. Conversation continues around him, but somehow he remains the center of it.

A few older capos immediately make their way over to greet him, but before any of them get there, Maximo spots me across the room. It’s like a fire on my skin. I look away first out of pure spite.

“He’s handsome,” the woman continues in a conspiratorial tone.

“That’s one word for it.”