And he’s worth admiring. I’ve never seen such a naturally beautiful man. It’s no wonder he caught the eye of a Rockford. Even in a loose cream blouse and tan, wide-legged slacks, he shines like a piece of artwork.
Shaking myself out of it, I rise to inspect the row of shoe options and decide on a pair of expensive Italian leather loafers. They have a small heel, and I add to the height by sliding a two-inch lift into the insole. Lorenzo is taller than I am. A figure who commands attention.
The suit waiting on the rack costs more than most people make in months, the charcoal-gray Italian wool hiding subtle burgundy threads only visible when the light hits just right. The cream silk shirt is designed to complement without stealing attention, and the muted paisley tie suggests old money.
With my back to Milo, I slip into the clothes, my Lorenzo persona settling over me with each new layer. It’s like putting on a familiar coat that fits from years of wear.
This is my most successful alias. The one I’ve inhabited longer than any other, cultivated over years of appearances at exclusive auctions and private galleries.
Lorenzo isn’t just a name I use. He’s a complete identity with a history, preferences, and a network of connections. Even his own signature scent. The two colognes sit on a table beside the scent blocker, waiting to be blended and applied to complete the transformation.
I straighten and step into the loafers, my view of the world shifting. The suit hugs my body like a second skin, tailored to give breadth to my chest while tapering at the waist. Again, I don’t know how the Rockfords did it. The suit had been waiting when Milo brought me down, and it fit my exact measurements.
I straighten my spine, shift my weight, and Lorenzo settles into my bones. The slight tilt of his head to suggest perpetual assessment, the way his fingers rest against each other, the hint of an Italian accent coloring his English just enough to be exotic without being difficult to understand.
“Lorenzo,” I test the name in his deep, rich voice. A man who has traveled the world and grown bored with all it has to offer.
“I want to learn your magic,” Milo breathes, then freezes as his focus shifts behind me.
I turn, and my heart stutters.
Ezra stands in the doorway, transformed in a way that makes Lorenzo’s metamorphosis seem trivial by comparison. Gone is the dominant Alpha. In his place stands someone softer, almost innocent, dressed in a tailored navy suit that somehow suggests submission rather than power. The cut emphasizes his youthful features and gives him the illusion of a delicate build despite his height.
The silver streak in his hair has been concealed with makeup and styled to draw attention to his face, giving him a more boyish, almost innocent appearance.
“What do you think?” Ezra asks the question softer than usual, stripped of his confidence.
He turns in a slow circle, and the movement contains none of his usual predatory grace. It’s calculated to draw the eye, to entice rather than intimidate.
The role reversal rocks through me. He’s playing arm candy. Pretty decoration. While I command rooms as Lorenzo, Ezra will follow in my shadow, playing at submission.
“It’s…” I falter.
Lorenzo wouldn’t be rattled by his beauty, but I’m not fully Lorenzo yet, and the sight of a vulnerable Ezra cuts through my defenses.
“Perfect,” Milo finishes for me, circling Ezra with an appreciative eye. “No one would ever mistake you for a dominant Alpha.”
The predator peeks out before it’s gone, masked by Ezra’s practiced charm. “That’s the point.”
Ezra moves toward me with a grace that somehow appears submissive despite his natural elegance. “Lorenzo Vescari wouldn’t be seen with an equal. He collects beautiful things.”
How does he know what Lorenzo Vescari would and wouldn’t do?
His fingers brush mine, and the casual touch sends electricity racing up my arm as he leans in. “I can be very beautiful, when I want to be.”
My stomach tightens with heat, and I sway toward him.
“Final touches,” Milo interrupts, handing me a gold signet ring with a Roman coin embedded in the center and a vintage watch that costs more than a small house.
“Here, allow me.” Ezra takes the watch and slips it over my wrist, his fingers lingering on my racing pulse. As he slips the ring onto my ring finger, he peeks up at me through his lashes. “Now you look like you could buy and sell everyone in the room.”
“That’s the idea.” Lorenzo’s confidence flows through me now, becoming my own. I check my reflection one last time and adjust the tie. “Shall we? Our host awaits.”
Halcyon Hall glows against the night sky, floodlights illuminating its stone facade to showcase its grandeur for arriving guests. Limousines line the circular drive, disgorging couples draped in silks and jewels.
Our car, a sleek black Bentley borrowed from the Rockford fleet, glides to a stop at the entrance.
The door opens, and I step out first. Lorenzo always enters a room first, claiming space before acknowledging anyone else. I extend a hand to Ezra, who takes it with a flirty dip of his chin.
