Chapter 4

The rooftop garden's cold air should have sobered Gianna up. Instead, it made everything worse.

Her head spun. Her skin burned. The world tilted sideways.

No... not here. I can't collapse here.

She turned back. David was still following, his eyes crawling over her body with undisguised hunger.

"Ms. Dyson, where are you going?" His voice grew closer, slick with false concern. "It's dangerous out here. Let me help you rest."

Don't touch me.

Gianna tried to scream it, but her throat closed up. Only a weak whimper escaped.

Her steps slowed. Her vision blurred.

"Ah!"

Her heel caught on nothing. She went down hard.

The white mermaid gown clung to every curve as she sprawled across the marble tiles. Her curls spilled over her shoulders. Her face flushed crimson.

"Ms. Dyson, you should be more careful."

David's voice came from above, dripping with fake sympathy.

Gianna felt hands grab her shoulders, flipping her onto her back.

The cold marble pressed against her spine, but she only felt hotter.

"No... don't..." The words barely made it past her lips.

David crouched over her, moonlight painting his bloated face in silver. His eyes burned with naked want.

"Ms. Dyson, don't worry." He licked his lips. "I'll be gentle."

His breathing grew heavier.

He stared down at her—the flushed face, the exposed shoulders, the rise and fall of her chest, the long legs shifting restlessly under the drug's influence.

David made a satisfied sound in his throat. "Newark's finest beauty. The rumors didn't lie."

Gianna's whole body trembled. She tried to push him away, but her arms were dead weight, lifting and falling uselessly.

"No... please... don't..." Her voice broke into a sob. Tears slid down her temples.

"Don't be scared." David's grin widened. "It'll stop hurting soon."

His hand reached for her dress, ready to rip—

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The voice cut through the night like a blade—cold, controlled, murderous.

David froze.

That voice. It was too cold. Each word carried the promise of violence.

He whipped around and saw a tall figure standing in the shadows.

Backlit. Face obscured. But the presence alone made David's skin crawl.

"Who... who the hell are you?" David's voice cracked with false bravado. "This is a private event. You're trespassing—"

The figure stepped forward.

Moonlight caught his face. David finally saw Marco clearly.

Six-foot-five. Eyes like black holes. The way he looked at David—like he was already dead.

"Mike. Family rules. Handle him."

Marco didn't spare David another glance. His attention shifted to Gianna.

"Yes, Don."

Mike gestured. Four men materialized, grabbing David and dragging him toward a shadowed corner—somewhere the blood wouldn't disturb the guests.

Marco crossed the distance in three strides.

Moonlight poured over the woman sprawled on the cold marble. Her white dress was bunched around her waist. The straps had slipped, exposing expanses of smooth skin.

Her face was flushed an unnatural crimson. Her eyes were unfocused, glazed. Her hands clawed at her neckline, desperate.

"Hot... so hot..." Gianna's voice broke into a whimper.

She pulled at her collar, exposing more skin—pale, flushed, perfect. The fabric strained over soft curves, distorted by the constriction.

Marco's throat worked. His eyes darkened.

He took a slow breath, forcing control.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over her, then lifted her into his arms.

She curled into his chest instinctively, small hands fisting in his shirt.

"Hot... please... help me..." Her voice was weak, desperate.

Marco looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

Just like that night.

He carried her toward the exit. As he passed Mike, he stopped and glanced toward Halse, who was watching from across the garden.

"Him," Marco said quietly. "Leave him for now."

Halse's entire body went rigid. Cold sweat soaked through his shirt.

Gianna squirmed in Marco's arms, hands batting at the jacket covering her body. She was trying to escape the fabric, to find relief.

Her fingers slipped beneath the jacket and found his chest through the thin shirt. She traced the hard planes of muscle, sending jolts of electricity through him.

"Hot... too hot... don't want this..." She sobbed softly, her voice breaking.

She moved like a siren in his arms, pressing against him, her softness molding to his body.

Marco's breathing roughened. His eyes went darker still.

Goddamn it.

Just like that night.

He clenched his jaw, forcing down the heat surging through him.

Marco leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. His voice dropped to a dangerous rasp.

"Be still," he said slowly, "unless you want to put on a show for everyone here."

Whether she understood or simply sensed danger, Gianna went quiet.

She stopped squirming and nestled obediently into his chest.

Marco's mouth curved into a satisfied smile.

He strode past the rooftop garden, leaving chaos in his wake.

In the ballroom, the crowd stood frozen, unable to process what they'd just witnessed.

What the hell just happened?

David got his ass handed to him?

The heir to Newark's second most powerful family—beaten like a dog in front of everyone?

Finally, someone sucked in a sharp breath.

"Who the fuck was that?!" someone hissed. "He just assaulted David Davis! Does he have a death wish? The Davis family doesn't fuck around—and their backer in New York? That man's a goddamn legend!"

"Exactly," another voice chimed in. "If it weren't for that big shot protecting them, David would've been dead ten times over for the shit he's pulled in Newark. We're not cowards here—we just know better than to cross him."

Several people looked at Marco's men with a mix of admiration and pity.

"That's either real courage... or a suicide mission."

"Newark's about to change hands," someone murmured.

The guests could afford to watch. Halse couldn't.

This banquet was co-hosted by two families. David was the alliance marriage candidate. Now he'd been humiliated publicly. The fallout would be catastrophic.

Worse—Halse had taken money for this deal.

Rage boiled over. "Throw them out! Save David!"

A dozen security guards surrounded Marco's six men, electric batons in hand.

But no one moved.

They could tell—these weren't bodyguards. These were killers.

"Go! You outnumber them!" Halse kicked one guard forward.

The guard swung his baton. He didn't even make contact before a boot caught him in the chest, sending him flying ten feet backward. He crashed into three others. Blood sprayed from his mouth.

Halse's face went white.

This isn't even close.

His hands shook as he pulled out his phone. He dialed his father first, then the Davis family.