The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

They don’t appreciate Clare. They don’t deserve her.

She’s talking about the Policemen’s Gala, I assume. It’s an annual event—a chance for the cops to spend their remaining budget on shrimp skewers and champagne so they can toast themselves all night long.

“Who are you texting?” Emmanuel demands.

Instead of answering, I say, “Do you have a tux?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Why?”

“Because we’re crashing a party tonight.”

“What party?” he frowns, already suspicious.

“The Policemen’s Gala.”

Emmanuel shakes his head at me, shocked beyond words.

“Have you lost your mind? Every cop in the city is looking for you.”

“I know. It’s not gonna be a problem.”

“How do you figure that?”

I grin. “It’s a masquerade ball.”

The gala is not just for cops—all the wealthiest and most influential citizens of Desolation are here, the women dressed in gowns as fanciful and frilled as pastel wedding cakes, the men in dark dinner jackets. Every face is masked, and every person who passes through the doors bears a heavy gilt invitation.

I secured the invitations for Emmanuel and me at great cost and no small inconvenience.

The price is well worth it when we pass inside with a respectful, “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen,” from the guards at the door.

Emmanuel is wearing a pale white mask with a devilish grin that covers his whole face. Mine is black and covers only the upper half, leaving my mouth bare.

It won’t matter—everyone is already well on their way to drunk, and far more interested in schmoozing than trying to guess the identity of two more dark-suited men in a crowd of two hundred.

I, on the other hand, am searching carefully for the one person I want to see.

Masked or not, I know I’ll recognize Clare.

Sure enough, it only takes me a minute to pick out her unmistakable figure gliding across the dance floor.

She’s dressed in a silvery gown, lighter than a cloud, that seems to float around her, glittering gently under the dozens of chandeliers lining the hall. Her hair is pulled up in an elegant updo, the dark waves held in place with two jeweled combs. Her silver mask looks like the open wings of a swan.

She’s never looked more stunning.

Just the sight of her would fill me with pure, bright happiness all over again.

Except that she’s dancing in the arms of another man.

Instead of joy, I’m filled with hot, boiling jealousy. All in an instant, I forget why I’m here. I forget that this room is filled with a hundred cops. I forget that I’m already a wanted man.

All I see is that suicidal motherfucker with his hands around Clare’s waist. He’s touching her, holding her, looking into her eyes. I decide right then that I’m going to break every finger that touched her, and then I’m gonna snap his neck for good measure.

I’m already storming across the dance floor, shouldering aside anyone who stands in my way.

I grab him by the shoulder, wrenching them apart, saying, “Excuse me,” in the tone of voice that really means, “Fuck off right now if you know what’s good for you.”

“Hey!” the guy says, indignantly.

“Don’t say another word if you want to keep that tongue attached to your head,” I snarl.

The guy gives me one shocked stare through his knocked-askew mask, then he sees the crazed look in my eyes and he hustles off toward the open bar instead.

“Smart decision,” I grunt, already sweeping Clare into my arms where she belongs.

Her outraged sputtering turns to stunned silence as soon as she recognizes me. Now her hand is shaking inside of mine as she looks up at me, squeaking, “Are you out of your mind?”.

“I told you I wanted to see you.”

“And I told you that it would have to wait until tomorrow! Every cop here is looking for you!”

“I don’t want to wait.”

Her eyes are darting around wildly from behind the mask as she notes how close we’re standing to the mayor and the chief of police.

“This is insane!” she hisses. “You can’t be here!”

I shrug. “Obviously I can.”

“They’re going to catch you!”

“They definitely will if you keep dancing like a hostage instead of my date.”

I twirl her around, expertly taking her through the steps of the waltz played by an eight-piece orchestra.

“I can’t believe you!” Clare murmurs, still flushing red under her mask. “And how do you know how to dance?”

“I know how to do a lot of things.”

After a moment, Clare says quietly, “I suppose your mother taught you.”

I nod, pleased that she guessed.

“She would have liked you,” I say.

“Really?” Clare says. Then, laughing softly, “My mom’s not going to like you at all, but if she did, then I probably wouldn’t.”

I snort. “You planning to introduce me to her?”

“No,” Clare says, not smiling anymore. “But only because I’d never inflict my parents on you.”

Yet another cement barricade against the possibility of us ever being together.

I don’t give a fuck. I want Clare. In fact, I need her.