"Dance With Me Like My Husband—There's a Red Dot on Your Forehead," She Whispered to the Mafia Boss Spotlight8
CHAPTER 1
The champagne flute slipped through my fingers. I caught it an inch above the marble floor.
My heart hammered as I straightened, the weight of the silver tray digging into my forearm. Around me, Miami’s elite glittered beneath the crystal chandeliers of the Fontine Blow ballroom, their laughter bouncing off gilded walls. I’d been on my feet for six hours, weaving through designer gowns and tailored tuxedos, invisible to everyone except when they needed their glasses refilled.
The event coordinator’s warning echoed in my skull: Keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact. And for God’s sake, don’t spill anything.
My shoes were two years old, held together by hope and duct tape. Three jobs I’d worked to afford this city. Mornings at a coffee shop in Wynwood. Late nights doing freelance transcription. Catering gigs like this one whenever I could get them. And still, I was barely surviving.
I approached Table 7 with practiced efficiency. “Champagne, gentlemen.”
Most of them didn’t glance my way. They reached for glasses the way they reached for everything—without acknowledgment, as if I were furniture.
But one man looked up.
His eyes were dark, almost black in the golden light. Something flickered in them—recognition? Curiosity? He was younger than the others, early thirties, with dark hair swept back from a face carved from marble. His tuxedo fit him like a second skin. A platinum watch caught the light as he gestured.
Then I saw it.
A red dot. Small, precise, dancing across the shoulder of his jacket.
My breath froze. I tracked it upward as it settled on his forehead with deadly steadiness. Professional. Steady. Someone in this room or beyond these windows had a laser sight trained on this man. Had a weapon pointed at his head.
Time compressed. If I screamed, the shooter would fire. If I ran, the shooter would fire. If I did nothing, this man would die in front of me, his blood painting the champagne flutes.
I set down my tray. Smiled. Stepped close and placed my hand on his arm.
“Dance with me like my husband,” I whispered, pitching my voice low and intimate. “There’s a red dot on your forehead. Don’t react. Don’t move. Just follow my lead.”
His entire body went rigid beneath my touch. But his face betrayed nothing.
“Who are you?” His voice was a low rumble, carrying an accent I couldn’t quite place.
“Right now, I’m the woman who’s about to save your life. Dance with me.”
A heartbeat of hesitation. Then, with fluid grace that suggested he was used to making split-second decisions, he pulled me toward the dance floor.
The string quartet had shifted to a waltz. He swept me into the rhythm without missing a beat, his hand settling at the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my uniform. We moved together, and I felt the red dot tracking us, trying to find its target again.
“Talk,” he murmured against my ear. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me. I’m a waitress who happened to notice the laser sight aimed at your head.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe. I just didn’t want to watch someone die tonight.”
I guided us deeper into the crowd, using the other dancers as cover. I could feel him reading me, his body tense with suspicion and something else—calculation.
“Your friends at Table 7 are looking worried,” I observed.
“They’re not friends. They’re family.”
The way he said it made something cold settle in my stomach. I’d lived in Miami long enough to know what kind of “family” commanded that tone.
“Oh god,” I breathed. “You’re—”
“Careful what you say next, Emma.”
I hadn’t told him my name.
“Words have consequences.”
The waltz ended. He didn’t release me. Instead, he kept his hand at my back, guiding me off the dance floor toward a quieter corner. His men formed a loose perimeter around us, their eyes scanning the room with professional alertness.
“Emma,” he said, testing my name. “Tell me—how did you spot that laser when no one else did?”
“I was serving your table. The dot was there. I didn’t think. I just acted.”
“You didn’t think.” He repeated the words slowly. “You saw a threat to a complete stranger, and your instinct was to put yourself in danger to help them.”
“When you phrase it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It was stupid.” His thumb brushed across my lower back. “Or incredibly brave. I haven’t decided which.”
One of his men approached—tall, with silver threading through dark hair. He leaned in, whispered rapid Italian. Vincent’s expression hardened.
“It seems you were correct about the threat. My people found evidence of a sniper position on the building across the street. The shooter is gone now, but he was definitely there.”
Relief and terror warred in my chest. “So I didn’t imagine it.”
“No, you didn’t.” His gaze intensified. “Which means you saved my life, Emma Thompson. And that puts us both in a very complicated situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a witness. You can identify the location, the timing. If my enemies discover that you interfered with their attempt on my life, you become a target.”
The floor tilted beneath me. “But I don’t know anything. I don’t even know who you really are.”
“You know enough.”
He gestured to his man. “Dante, make sure the exits are secure. No one leaves until I say so.”
Then to me: “I’m afraid you won’t be returning to your serving duties tonight, Emma. For your own protection, you need to stay close to me.”
I followed him through a private exit, his hand firm at my elbow. Not quite restraining. Making it clear that leaving wasn’t an option.
The night air hit my face, humid and salt-tinged. A black SUV waited, engine running. Two of his men flanked us, their eyes scanning the darkness.
“Get in.”
I hesitated. Every instinct screamed that getting into a car with a man connected to organized crime was a terrible idea.
But the alternative—going home alone, unprotected, possibly followed—seemed worse.
I climbed in.
Vincent slid in beside me. The driver pulled away from the curb, merging into Miami’s late-night traffic.
“Where are we going?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
“Somewhere safe.”
I watched the familiar streets slide past, neon signs reflecting off rain-slicked pavement. We were heading away from my neighborhood, toward the exclusive waterfront areas where penthouses cost more than I’d make in several lifetimes.
“I need to call someone. My roommate will worry.”
Vincent handed me his phone without looking up. “Use this. Don’t mention where you are or who you’re with. Just say you picked up an extra shift.”
I dialed Sarah’s number, rehearsing the lie. She answered on the third ring, her voice fuzzy with sleep.
“Sarah, it’s me. I got asked to work an overnight event. Don’t wait up.”
“Emma, whose phone is this?”
“Mine died. I borrowed someone’s. I’ll be home tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. Be safe. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I ended the call and handed the phone back. Vincent was watching me with an unreadable expression.
“Have you lied to her before?”
“Only about how okay I actually am.”
The confession slipped out before I could stop it. Something in the darkness outside made me more honest than I should have been.
The SUV turned into an underground parking garage. We took a private elevator that required a key card, ascending to a penthouse that opened directly into a space of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Biscayne Bay.
The penthouse was beautiful. Modern furniture in shades of black and gray. Original artwork. A kitchen that looked unused. Everything pristine, expensive, and completely impersonal.
“Does anyone actually live here?”
“I do sometimes.” Vincent shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle. “I have several properties. This is the most secure.”
Dante appeared with a tablet. “Boss, we’ve got the footage. You’re going to want to see this.”
They pulled up security feeds on a large screen. A rooftop across from the hotel. A dark figure with a long-range rifle. Three minutes—Vincent had been in the crosshairs for three full minutes, and no one had noticed except me.
The shooter was gone now. But he’d been real.
“You saved my life tonight, Emma.” Vincent’s voice was quiet. “That creates an obligation. I protect what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“No.” His dark eyes held mine. “Not yet. But you’re under my protection. Which means you follow my rules. Don’t leave this penthouse without my permission. Don’t contact anyone except through phones I provide. And most importantly—don’t trust anyone who isn’t vetted by me or my inner circle.”
The reality settled over me like a stone. I’d traded one kind of trap for another. A gilded cage with an ocean view.
“How long? How long do I have to stay here?”
“Until I’m certain the threat has passed.”
He left me in the guest suite, closing the door softly behind him. The room was larger than my entire apartment. The bed was impossibly soft. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Miami glittered like scattered diamonds.
Beautiful and dangerous.
May you like
I fell asleep within minutes, exhaustion pulling me under. My last thought was that my life had changed irrevocably, and I had no idea if it was for better or worse.
