Defiant Vows

Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

VIVIANA

When I wake up the next morning, Luc is gone, but the scent of an unknown woman’s perfume lingers in the sheets. Just two days ago, I told him to sleep with other women, but now that he has…

My stomach twists.

I stay in bed until noon, completely abandoning all plans of visiting my parents that afternoon or returning to the galleries in the Lower East Side. When I finally emerge from the bedroom, Lex sits in the same place I left him last night, taking up an incomprehensibly large portion of couch and eyes glued to the television. I shuffle toward the kitchen.

“Afternoon,” he greets, turning down the volume.

“Hey, Lex.” I continue on my search for oatmeal in the cupboards.

My relative silence must unnerve him, because he speaks again a moment later. “Mr. Venturi liked the new painting. He saw it this morning. Said he wants you to buy the sailboats from the same artist.”

Usually, the news would make me ecstatic. After imagining him exchanging spit—and other bodily fluids—with some random model last night, it has lost its luster. I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Maybe he’d want to come with me. What is his schedule like today?”

Lex blinks and sits a bit straighter. “Uh, he’s in the main offices until seven, then back to the club for more meetings.”

The news deflates me. I pause halfway through pouring my oatmeal, leaving a pitiful amount at the center of my bowl. Silence stretches over the kitchen, and I stare at the granite countertops for one long second. Another. Then, a plan snaps into place.

Clearing my throat, I shrug and muster my best ‘ this is fine’ smile. “I won’t be going to the galleries again today.”

“Sure,” Lex answers, settling back into the couch.

I lean an elbow on the counter. “Lexington,” I drawl his name and wiggle my brows. “Have you ever been window shopping on Fifth Avenue?”

Lex and I spent the day walking up and down Fifth Avenue, slipping into every boutique and designer’s shop that took Luc’s shiny, gold American Express. That would be all of them.

I never loved shopping in the past, and now I remember why. My feet hurt, a headache lingers just behind my temples, and my social battery is at an all-time low. By the time six o’clock in the evening rolls around, I’m exhausted. Not to mention, I think Lex might be on the verge of committing murder.

But, I found what I needed. Three bags worth of it.

An hour and a half later, I emerge from my bedroom transformed.

Lex, who’s back on the couch and shoveling spoonfuls of last night’s dinner in his mouth, nearly chokes. His dark eyes sweep up and down my body once. Then again. His throat bobs as he swallows down the lump of fried rice in his mouth. “What are you wearing?”

I grin. “We’re going clubbing!”

I slipped into one of my newest dresses, a slinky gold fabric that reminds me of opaque chainmail more than real clothing. It’s ridiculously short, with a plunging back and slits that travel up to my hip bone, but more comfortable than it appears. I paired it with strapped high-heels that ribbon up my calves.

It’s the sort of dress I never would’ve dreamed of taking off the hanger a few weeks ago, but one of the boutique stylists convinced me to try it on. Head-turning and show-stopping. Far too conspicuous for my tastes. Downright sexual.

Tonight, after a few shots of very strong liquor, it’ll be perfect.

Lex’s mouth gapes. “I don’t know about this. Let me call the boss.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” I demand, my voice dropping an octave. “I don’t need his permission to go to a club that I own.”

That’s a stretch. I don’t even know the name of said nightclub, nor the first thing about the businesses attached to it as a front for the Cosa Nostra. But I am a Venturi. I am the future don’s wife, and I will not be kept home.

He pinches his lips into a thin line, eyes narrowed. “He’ll want to know.”

A short, scalding laugh bubbles from my throat. “No he won’t. Luciano doesn’t care where I go, as long as I have my babysitter with me.”

It’s the truth. He said so himself when laying out the ground rules to govern our unconventional relationship. Of course, when he made that rule, I’d never stepped foot in a nightclub.

Lex contemplates this for one long moment before dipping his chin in a nod. “Fine. But we’re going straight to Mr. Venturi when we arrive.”

Plastering a sweet smile on my mouth, I give a vigorous nod. “Of course.”

We do no such thing.

Lex tried. He really did try to corral me to the VIP section as soon as we crossed the threshold of Mirage , but I waved my hand and begged him to let me stop by the bar first. Then, when my favorite Chappell Roan song played over the speakers, I had to dance. And dance. And dance.

Minutes bled into an hour, and, now, my bodyguard broods a few paces away while I sway and gyrate with a bachelorette party I attached myself to thirty minutes ago. He’s annoyed, but, between the bootleg cocktail sloshing in my hand and the ABBA remix blaring across the main dance floor, I don’t care.

I’m having fun. So much fun that I’ve nearly forgotten the reason I came. Nearly.

Despite the alcohol in my veins and the strobing, disorienting lights, I sense the moment he spots me in the crowd. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight, my skin prickling. I imagine a gazelle experiences a similar sensation seconds before a lion clamps its jaws into her neck.

Adrenaline spikes my blood, urging me to flee, but I do the opposite.

A small smirk curls on my lips, and I tap into the intoxicating rush—a lethal chemical reaction of epinephrine and high-octane spirits. I close my eyes and raise my arms in the air, causing my golden dress to lift a dangerous inch higher.

I’m dancing alone by now. Most of the bachelorette party has coupled up with random men hoping to get lucky, and the bride and maid of honor stumbled to the bathroom a few minutes ago.

No one dares to approach me—whether because of Lex’s death-stare or the sparkling sunflower adorning my left ring-finger, I don’t know—but that doesn’t stop them from looking. I feel their eyes burn into every inch of my exposed skin, devouring every slow circle of my hips. It’s flattering. I don’t often feel fun and sexy and confident.

But right now, there’s only one set of eyes that I care about. And I’m waiting for their owner to lose his temper.

It doesn’t take long, especially once I begin to trail my hands down the front of my body, gliding over every curve and crevice like a lover’s touch. The song changes, morphing into a slow, sensual beat, and a single finger taps me on the shoulder. The contact disappears as quickly as it came.

“Mrs. Venturi?”

I stop dancing. He sent one of his men to fetch me? Annoyance flares in my chest, but I paint a saccharine smile on my mouth and spin to face the newcomer. “Yes?”

The man wears a finely-tailored suit and a stern mask. “Please come with me.”

For a minute, I consider refusing. After all, if Luciano wants me to rush to his side, he should come get me himself. And yet, the intoxicated, nosy part of me is curious to know where he tucks himself away from view.

I sigh and nod. As I begin to follow the guard, Lex files in directly behind me, sandwiching me between the two large men. We spear toward a staircase leading to an upper deck—the VIP section, if I had to guess. It’s obscured by darkness and flashing lights, but I vaguely make out the shapes of bodies within the shadows.

My gaze stops on one particularly large shadow standing near the railing, arms braced on each side of his broad torso as he watches the writhing crowds below. A king surveying his kingdom. Even without seeing his face, I know it is Luc.

A strobe flashes, momentarily illuminating his hard features like a bolt of lightning. My breath catches in my throat. He’s staring directly at me, eyes churning with anger and frustration and… hunger?

My heartbeat increases tenfold. I look away, feigning disinterest, though I keep my chin high and shoulders rolled back. Then, I decide to punish my husband for sending one of his dogs to fetch me.

As soon as we reach the bottom of the stairs, I reach ahead to grasp Mr. Stern Suit’s hand.

He pauses on the first step, whipping his head around when my fingers slip into his own. His skin is rough and calloused and in desperate need of moisturizer. “Mrs. Venturi?”

I blink at him, fluttering my thick, painted eyelashes. “Yes?”

He doesn’t answer, just looks at our connected hands.

“I’ve been drinking and I’m wearing very high heels,” I coo and lean ever closer to him, my lips nearing his ear. I feel him stiffen beside me. “Unless you’re willing to risk my husband’s wrath should I fall down the stairs, I’ll need your help.”

My grip on his hand tightens, and I offer him that signature sugary smile. Again he keeps his mouth shut, but his wide eyes flash toward the top of the stairs, as if expecting Luc to be waiting there to punish him.

“Now,” I sigh, patting his chest twice with my spare hand before brushing past him. “Let’s go. I’m sure Luciano is eager to see us.”

I lead the way up the stairs, one hand holding the railing while the other twines with Mr. Stern Suit’s at the small of my back. He doesn’t try to pull away, but he isn’t actively holding my hand, either. Discomfort radiates off him in waves, and I almost pity him, an unfortunate pawn in my game with Luc.

The moment we reach the top of the stairs, a tall, hulking figure materializes in front of us. Black leather dress shoes. Long legs covered by perfectly tailored slacks. A simple white dress-shirt, top buttons unclasped to reveal a dusting of dark hair. Jaw strung tight, cords of tension lining every muscle…

Immediately, Mr. Stern Suit yanks his clammy palm away, scrambling to put a healthy distance between our bodies. I watch him scurry back to his post and pout, twining a finger in one of my loose curls. “I don’t think he liked me very much.”

“I think he just likes keeping his hands more.” Luc’s low voice barely reaches me above the pounding bass. There’s a murderous gleam in his eyes as his gaze follows Mr. Stern Suit.

I can’t keep my lips from curling into a smirk. “What has your panties in a wad? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

His eyes snap back to me, saving the poor guard from his ire.

Luc tucks both hands in his pockets and studies me. I feel his slow, thorough perusal like a featherlight touch, sending shivers and heat wherever his gaze slides. By the time his eyes reach mine again, my nipples are tight and rubbing mercilessly against the metallic fabric of my dress. I shift on my feet, casually pressing my thighs together.

Tilting my head, I cock a brow. “Well?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I suppose your mother sent you that getup, as well?”

“Actually, no.” I pick an invisible piece of lint from the skirt. “I bought this one myself. Do you like it?”

Luc cocks his head to one side. The movement reminds me of a predator seconds before sinking its teeth into prey, and, I swear, something like pleasure dances behind his lupine smile. “You’ve certainly come a long way from your silly Van Gogh t-shirts, haven’t you?”

The tension between us simmers down, and I roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy my artist t-shirts. You’re just lucky to have a woman that can do both.”

He hums in agreement, and I hate how much my chest warms at that small validation. “To answer your question, I am happy to see you. Though I’d be happier if you would take my jacket.”

“That’s a very nice way to dress-shame me,” I tease, crossing my arms against my chest. “Do I have to?”

“I suppose not. Though I’m not sure you’ll like the alternative.”

I purse my lips. “The alternative?”

Luc doesn’t answer. He simply closes the space between us and wraps an arm around my waist, tucking me close to his side. I’m helpless to resist as he guides me away from the staircase, which I now realize is heavily guarded, and toward a booth in the VIP floor’s shadows. He takes a seat on the leather couch, and, before I can steady myself on my heels, he tugs me onto his lap.

“What the—” I gasp, bracing one hand against his hard chest. The other fists the fabric stretched across his upper back, inches away from his nape.

“ This is the alternative, cattivella ,” he purrs, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. “You’re mine for the rest of the night.”

His rumbling voice stokes the liquid fire in my blood, even though I’m fairly certain he just called me a ‘naughty girl.’ I never took Italian in high school and turned my nose up at the tutors my parents hired—a small, foolish act of defiance—but the three years I spent living in Italy gave me a basic understanding of the language.

Wrinkling my nose, I force myself to lean away from his warmth to look him in the eye. “Did you just call me a bad girl ?”

One corner of his lips quirks upward, and he responds without missing a beat. “Would a good girl walk into a nightclub wearing a dress like that?”

As if to stress his point, Luc’s hand lands on my exposed upper thigh. His fingertips splay over smooth skin, spreading wide before shrinking into a fist. He repeats the motion again and again until every fiber in my body is hyper-focused on the lazy strokes that inch higher and higher.

I suppress a shiver, though goosebumps still pepper my flesh.

When I don’t respond—mainly because his index finger drifts dangerously close to my apex and causes my brain to misfire— he continues. “Though, I suppose I should be grateful you’re at least wearing your wedding ring.”

His spare hand clasps my left one, lifting it up to better investigate the flower-shaped engagement ring. I admire it, too, though my eyes drift to the simple platinum band encircling his own ring ringer. From our wedding ceremony, I know sapphires encrust the inside, matching the brilliant gemstones on my sister’s ring.

For the smallest, strangest moment, jealousy curls low in my stomach like a toxin taking root. I wear Luc’s ring, but he still wears the ring chosen by my older sister. I believe him when he says his relationship with Elenora was more business-like than anything, but that doesn’t stop the hurt from festering. Then, that hurt and jealousy quickly morphs into guilt.

God, I’m jealous of my dead sister. That must be a new low.

Even so, I wish he wore my ring. On paper, Elenora was the better match for him. And yet, some traitorous, stupid part of me wants to believe that our marriage has pleasantly surprised us both. In the absence of love, we’ve built a tolerance at the very least. I think that deserves a ring. My ring.

“Where did your mind just run off to?”

Luc’s honey-like voice in my ear snaps me from my spiraling thoughts. His breath warms the side of my face, and the tip of his nose brushes against my earlobe. My eyelids shutter closed, and I return to the dark booth, surrounded by cigarette smoke and a pounding bass.

“I was thinking that the ring didn’t stop anyone from trying to dance with me. Lex was a far more intimidating deterrent.”

Luc chuckles, and I feel the vibration of it in my body. “Thanks for reminding me. I almost forgot to fire him for letting you leave the house like this.” He squeezes my thigh, and I yelp, which only makes him laugh more. “The bouncers are getting fired, too.”

I swat his hand away. “Don’t fire Lex. Or the bouncers. Wait— why do you want to fire them?”

“For letting an underage girl into my club. They should’ve checked your I.D. and turned your sweet little ass around.” Affection laces his words.

“Oh, they tried.” I shrug. “But I gave them each a blow job so they’d let me in.”

Luc’s fingers on my thigh freeze, and every muscle in his body goes stiff beneath me. “Viviana—”

I start laughing, head tipped backwards. I almost lose my balance and slip from his lap, though his iron-like hold keeps me in place. I shake my head and struggle to catch my breath, stitches igniting between my ribs. “You should see your face.”

Graphite eyes fall flat, though his cheeks redden with color. “You’re hilarious.”

My laughter descends into giggles. “They let us pass through as soon as they recognized Lex,” I explain, smoothing my fingers over a wrinkle on his chest. “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be working?”

He scowls but deigns to respond. “I am working, cattivella.”

Oh God, is that nickname going to stick?

I ignore it and look around the VIP section, truly absorbing my surroundings for the first time since arriving upstairs. At least three dozen patrons scatter across the top floor. Four women dance on solo platforms, each with a metal pole rising through the center, and servers glide through the crowds carrying trays of beverages and cigars. It’s extravagant and busy and private, all at once.

“Oh, yes,” I drawl, hooking both arms around his neck. My fingers play in the short dark hair at the base of his head. “I can see you’re working very hard.”

That same low, amused chuckle rumbles from his chest. “I am. In fact, I have several special guests here tonight.”

There’s something eery about the way he says that— special guests. I raise my brows. “Good guests or bad guests?”

“ That remains to be decided.” Luc takes my chin, tilting my face closer to his. I feel his breath tickle my lips, only centimeters separating us, and his thumb strokes the corner of my mouth. “How would you like to help me decide?”