Blood Feud

The Worthington Foundation gala was exactly the kind of event Sofia Castellano had been trained for since childhood: champagne flutes that never seemed to empty, conversations that meant nothing and everything simultaneously, and enough old money in the room to buy a small country.

She was bored out of her mind.

"You're doing the thing again," her cousin Marco said, materializing beside her with two glasses of something amber.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you smile like you're plotting someone's death."

Sofia accepted the glass and took a sip. Bourbon. Marco knew her well. "Maybe I am."

"Just don't do it until after I've secured the Fitzgerald contract. Their daughter keeps looking at me."

"She's looking at you because you have spinach in your teeth."

Marco's hand flew to his mouth, and Sofia laughed for the first time all evening as he excused himself toward the nearest mirror. She loved her family—fiercely, unconditionally—but God, these events were torture.

She drifted toward the edge of the ballroom, away from the clusters of networking and the strategic placement of her father's business associates. Through the tall windows, the city sparkled like a promise she wasn't sure she believed anymore.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

The voice came from her left—low, amused, and entirely too observant. Sofia turned to find a man leaning against the pillar beside her, half-hidden in shadow. Tall. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it one too many times. A jaw that could cut glass and eyes that were watching her with an intensity that made her spine straighten.

He was, objectively, the most attractive man she'd ever seen. Which meant he was probably insufferable.

"Bold assumption," she said, "from someone who's hiding behind a pillar."

His laugh was low, genuine. "I prefer 'strategic positioning.' Better view from here."

"Of what?"

"Of you looking like you're about to commit white-collar crime."

Sofia felt her lips twitch despite herself. "And if I am?"

"I'd ask for a cut." He stepped out of the shadow, and the light caught his features properly—the strong lines of his face, the slight crook of his nose that suggested it had been broken once. He wasn't pretty. He was something more dangerous than that. "James," he said, extending his hand.

She hesitated for exactly one second. Then: "Sofia."

His hand was warm and dry, and he held hers a moment longer than necessary. She didn't pull away.

"So, Sofia," he said, her name sounding different in his voice, "what brings you to this particular circle of hell?"

"Fa...