Azeelia Cole
My heart plummeted into my stomach. The air in my apartment felt instantly thin, cold, and heavy.
I could have sworn I saw you wearing red tonight.
I stared at the screen, my hands trembling so violently I almost dropped the phone. He knows. He knows I'm Scarlet.
Panic clawed at my chest. But then a small, desperate voice of logic forced its way through the noise. If Gabriel Marchetti knew I was Scarlet—if he knew a journalist had tricked him into a flirtatious trap—he wouldn't text a cryptic joke. He would send a squad of hitmen to my front door. He was a Don. He didn't play games with liabilities; he eliminated them.
He was testing me. He saw me at the gala in a red dress, and he was throwing out a line to see if I would flinch.
I forced my breathing to slow down, typi
