1: THE DEMIGOD IN THE ROOM

~PROLOGUE~

You think you can control me?” she whispered, her voice trembling with defiance she didn’t quite feel.

Dante stepped closer, his scent, clean smoke and danger, curling around her like silk. “No,” he said softly, his gaze dropping to her lips. “I already do.”

Her pulse raced as his fingers brushed the edge of her jaw, the touch both command and promise. He leaned in, his words a low growl against her ear.

“Be mine, Amara. Pretend if you must, lie if you want, but from this moment on, you’re mine.”

She tried to laugh, to push him away, but his proximity burned through every excuse. “You’re asking me to play your girlfriend?”

“No,” Dante murmured, eyes locked on hers. “I’m asking you to convince the world I’m in love with you.”

Her breath caught, half in fear, half in something far more dangerous. Because somehow… she already was.

CHAPTER 1

The marble floors gleamed like a mirror beneath Amara Voss’s heels as she stepped into the ballroom. Chandeliers hung low, spilling gold across silk gowns and sharp tuxedos, turning New York’s most feared into creatures of glittering elegance. Tonight was supposed to be just another society event, another parade of billionaires, politicians, and power brokers.

But Amara knew better.

Behind the polished laughter and champagne flutes was the pulse of something darker. The Vitale family didn’t throw parties for the sake of socializing. They curated stages. Every guest here was a pawn, a loyalist, or a threat.

She tugged lightly at the hem of her emerald dress, letting the fabric settle against her hips. Her cover tonight was airtight: Amara Voss, corporate lawyer, freshly courted by Manhattan’s elite firms. Wealthy, untouchable, the kind of woman who belonged in rooms like these.

In reality, she was none of those things.

Underneath the diamonds and the flawless smile, she was a Federal agent. And her target had just walked in.

The crowd shifted before she even saw him, as though drawn by an invisible current. Conversations stuttered. Laughter dipped, then rose again, too loud, too eager. And then, through the parting sea of admirers, Dante Vitale appeared.

Amara’s breath hitched.

Photographs had not done him justice.

He was taller than she expected, broad-shouldered in a black tailored suit that looked poured onto him. His features were sharp, symmetrical, cheekbones like cut glass, a jaw made to intimidate, lips just shy of sinful. But it wasn’t just his looks that made the air shift. It was his presence.

Dante moved like the ballroom belonged to him. Like the city belonged to him. Every glance he cast was a command, every step deliberate, measured. People orbited him. Women’s gazes lingered, hungry. Men adjusted their ties, suddenly smaller, suddenly lesser.

A demigod. That was the only word that came to Amara’s mind. And like all gods, he was dangerous.

She reminded herself of the mission. Get close. Gain his trust. Find the cracks in the Vitale empire.

But when his eyes landed on her, the reminder burned to ash.

Dark, penetrating, his gaze held her still as though he’d known all along she would be here. Heat climbed her neck. She forced herself not to look away, not to break character. She was supposed to be untouchable, unshaken.

Yet the corner of his mouth curved, and Amara had the sudden, terrifying impression he could see right through her silk and secrets.

He cut through the crowd, admirers trailing but irrelevant, until he stood before her. The scent of him reached her first, rich spice and smoke, expensive cologne with something wilder beneath.

“You don’t belong here.” His voice was low, velvet laced with iron.

Her fingers tightened around her champagne glass. “And you do?”

That smile again, slow, devastating. “I am here. That makes it mine.” His eyes dipped, briefly but deliberately, over the neckline of her dress before finding her lips. Heat seared her skin in the wake of his gaze. “Which begs the question, bella… what part of it are you?”

Amara tilted her chin higher. “None.”

“Hmm.” He plucked the glass from her hand, his fingers brushing hers in a touch that lingered just a moment too long. “Drink later. Dance now.”

It wasn’t a question.

Before she could protest, his hand pressed against the small of her back, firm, commanding. Her body moved before her mind could stop it, letting him lead her onto the marble dance floor.

The orchestra swelled, strings wrapping around them like a spell.

Dante’s palm stayed against her spine, guiding her closer until her chest brushed his with every step. He moved with effortless confidence, hips and shoulders aligning with hers, the kind of dancer who didn’t need to think, he simply was. The heat of his body soaked through silk, reminding her with each turn just how close they were.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, lips ghosting the shell of her ear.

Amara swallowed hard. “I am not.”

“Liar.” His chuckle vibrated low in his chest, dark velvet against her bones. “But don’t worry. I like liars. They make the game more interesting.”

Her pulse hammered, every nerve betraying her training. She told herself it was strategy, that playing along was safer than pushing back. But the truth was more dangerous. She noticed him, noticed the strength of his palm, the way his thigh brushed hers, the subtle command in his movements. She hated that her body responded.

She hated it even more when his head dipped lower, his breath feathering across her neck.

“Here’s the problem, bella,” he whispered, voice intimate despite the swell of music around them. “I don’t believe in coincidences. You walk in here looking like sin in silk, and I notice you. That means you’re here for me. And if you’re here for me…” His hand slid lower, pressing her body flush against his, “…you’re already mine.”

Her breath stuttered. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

His smile curved, sharp and knowing. “Not assumptions. Promises.”

The dance slowed, but neither of them broke eye contact. Amara felt trapped in his gaze, the world narrowing to the heat between them.

And then, just as the music reached its crescendo, Dante bent his head until his lips hovered a breath from hers, not kissing, not yet, but close enough that the air crackled.

“Remember this moment,” he said softly, voice silk and smoke. “Because it’s the beginning. You don’t walk away from me. Ever.”

The music ended. Applause erupted around them. But Amara barely heard it.

Her mission was supposed to be clear. Get close. Gather intel. Stay in control.

But as Dante Vitale released her, slowly, deliberately, like a man granting a favor instead of surrendering, Amara knew control had just become the most dangerous illusion of all.

And she wasn’t sure which terrified her more…

That he might discover who she really was.

Or that, deep down, part of her wanted to be exactly what he’d called her.

His.