"Arianna."

His voice blazed through the music.

I turned, no, stumbled toward the sound, heels wobbling, brain fuzzed with liquor and laughter.

Oh crap.

Damian Salvatore.

Stone-faced. Furious. Unamused.

Emily shot to her feet beside me. “I tried to stop her,” she blurted, hands up like a guilty accomplice in a mission gone wrong.

Damian didn’t even look at her. He simply turned to his men and said, “Shut it down. The club ceases to exist after today.”

The bouncers moved like trained shadows. Lights dimmed. Music died. My party ended.

“Don’t go,” I stuttered.

The manager paled, then actually wet himself. Just like that. “Y-Yes, Mr. Salvatore.”

“You peed...