Chapter Seventeen Jealousy Has a Name
Sofia's engagement party was the first event Elena attended without the shadow of Salvatore Calvetti hanging over the room, and for the first hour, she almost let herself relax.
It was a man named Marcus Whitfield who ruined that — a business associate of Dante's from outside the family's world entirely, charming in the practiced way of men who'd never had to work for anything, who spent twenty minutes at Elena's elbow describing his yacht in unnecessary detail before resting a hand, too familiar, at the small of her back to guide her toward the bar.
Dante crossed the room so fast Elena barely registered him moving before his hand had closed, not roughly but with unmistakable finality, around Marcus's wrist.
"You're touching my wife," Dante said, pleasant and utterly terrifying all at once.
"Dante, I was just —"
"I know what you were doing." His voice hadn't risen, but the temperature of the room seemed to drop regardless.
"I'm going to explain something to you once, Marcus, so that we understand each other.
My wife's body is not a topic of conversation, and it is certainly not something your hand finds its way toward without an invitation you were never given.
" He released Marcus's wrist with a precision that felt more threatening than if he'd thrown a punch.
"Touch her again, and I promise you, the yacht will be the least of what you lose. "
Marcus paled and retreated into the crowd without another word. Elena, mortified and oddly thrilled in equal measure, pulled Dante aside the moment they were alone.
"You can't threaten every man who talks to me."
"I can threaten every man who touches you.
There's a difference, and I intend to maintain it rigorously.
" His hand found her waist, pulling her closer than was strictly proper for a crowded party, his mouth dropping to her ear.
"I watched his hand on your back for exactly four seconds before I crossed that room, Elena. Four seconds felt like an hour."
"That's not healthy."
"No," he agreed, unbothered, "it's not. I never claimed to be a healthy man.
I claimed to be yours, entirely, and I find that possessiveness is simply what that word means to me.
" His lips brushed her temple. "Tell me you didn't feel anything, watching me do that, and I'll try to be better about it. "
She should have said she hadn't. She should have told him jealousy wasn't romantic, that no woman should feel a thrill at being defended like property.
Instead, unwillingly, she felt heat pool low in her stomach at the memory of his voice, cold and absolute, claiming her in front of a room full of strangers.
"I felt something," she admitted, quiet, ashamed of how true it was. "I don't know what that says about me."
"It says you understand me better than you want to." His forehead dropped to hers, his voice roughening. "Come home with me. Now. I need my hands on you where Marcus Whitfield can't see."
They left Sofia's party twenty minutes later, and Dante did not wait until they reached Larkspur Row — in the dark of the car, hidden from Marco's polite, professional silence in the front seat, he kissed her like a man staking a claim he'd already won, his hand sliding beneath the hem of her dress with a hunger that had her breathless and gasping his name before they'd even reached the estate gates.