The black Maserati purred into the valet line and I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, the silver Rolex on my wrist catching the chandelier-like reflections of the gala’s towering glass entryway beyond the rolling doors that lead inside. I didn’t want to be here; he didn’t even understand why he had agreed. Well—he knew why.

He owed the Callahan brothers one. Or two. Or ten.

"Fucking Callahans," he murmured under his breath, flashing his trademark smirk as the valet opened his door.

Immediately, eyes began clinging to my form, what, they've never seen a hot Italian man before? A tailored black Armani tuxedo hugged my broad shoulders like a second skin. The Tronto Blue Hawk #13 never did things halfway, and tonight was no exception.

I stepped out onto the crimson carpet rolled out for the evening. The flash of cameras popped like fireworks—paparazzi catching wind of my arrival. I gave them a quick wave and one of those megaton smiles that could melt hearts from fifty feet away. but I didn’t linger. I was here to fulfil an obligation and boost his image. The longer I stayed on the carpet, the less I’d be doing either.

Inside, the hall oozed grandeur—opulent chandeliers dripping with crystals, waitstaff gliding through the crowd with trays of champagne, the scent of expensive cologne mixing with an orchestra playing some classical shit I couldn’t pretend to remember. Patricia Callahan’s passion project. It was all very...tasteful. Translation: Boring as fuck.

"Luca, darling. So glad you could make it," Patricia air-kisses his cheek. "And alone, I see. Good thing."

I chuckle, unfazed. "Patricia, you wound me. You know I only bring out the skank for special occasions."

“Come on. You’ve got work to do tonight.”

“Work? I thought I was here to sip champagne and look pretty.”

“No one’s ever charged you of being modest.” She stopped. “Look, we have a special guest. Odette. She's…not well. Terminal, in fact. I need you to be their escort. Show her a good time, be a perfect gentleman. A civic duty.”