Chapter 10 Trilby
Trilby
The evening at the Di Santo residence was short-lived.
I was both aggrieved and relieved about that.
No matter how many times I tried to make conversation with Savero, he would give me a one-word (or one-line, if I was lucky) response then walk away.
I didn’t particularly revel in being dismissed repeatedly, but feeling the weight of Cristiano’s gaze the entire night? Now, that . . . That I could live with.
Before we went home, Savero announced the date of the wedding, and my stomach dropped to the floor.
It’s four weeks away. Four weeks. Just the thought of being married to that man in such a short time makes me lightheaded.
I feel as though I only have four weeks left to live. And that’s a dangerous feeling.
So when Sandrine, my classmate at art college, invited me to her birthday party at a club across town, I agreed.
Only Sera knows I’ve come here tonight. Everyone else in my family is none the wiser. Living in the apartment next door to them can be lonely at times, but it has its advantages.
Since I’m out on the down-low, I’ve dressed accordingly.
My navy dress is reasonably conservative in that it covers the essential bits, but it’s as snug as a dress can be.
I’ve shunned the beige kitten heels Allegra keeps trying to force me into, and I’m standing four inches taller in a pair of my mama’s favorite stilettoes.
Sweat drips down the walls, and my skin pulses to the music. Sandrine’s two friends are making out with each other on the sofas, while we hover at the edge of the dance floor, sipping our drinks while swaying our hips to the music.
“Honey, we need to do this more often,” Sandrine says, pulling on a Long Island iced tea. “I didn’t realize how well you let your hair down, mocktail aside.”
“It’s because they never let me out,” I shout over the music before slurping my virgin mojito through a straw.
She laughs because she thinks I’m joking, but it’s going to become my reality before I know it.
I’m pretty sure if Savero knew where I was right now, he’d have security lining the walls.
I’ve already noticed a few curious heads turning.
It hasn’t taken long for word to get around that I’ll be a part of the notorious family in a few short weeks.
The only person entirely oblivious to my predicament—partly because she refuses to acknowledge the Cosa Nostra exists, and partly because she wants me to be perpetually single with her—is Sandrine.
Her gaze catches on something, but I’m too happy and adrift to give it much thought. Then she leans into my ear.
“Don’t look now, but there’s a fucking gorgeous guy sitting by the bar, and he’s staring at you.”
My skin tingles—until I remember that’s not a good thing. In fact, it’s terrible. As demonstrated by my future brother-in-law’s propensity for disabling bartenders who don’t call cabs for drunk women, a man could meet his maker if he so much as looks at me the wrong way.
“Ignore him,” I shout over the music. “Besides, I’m engaged. I told you.”
Sandrine flicks her hair back over one shoulder and bats her lashes in the direction of the bar. “I’ll believe you have a fiancé when I see him for myself.”
I roll my eyes, because the day Savero lets me parade him around in front of my friends will most likely be the day hell freezes over.
“If you’re not going to make a play for him, I will. How have I not seen him around here before? He’d be a permanent fixture in my dreams, let alone my fantasies. God, he’d make the cutest babies.”
I’m not the type of girl to make a play for anyone, but curiosity gets the better of me. I feign a slow twirl to the music, panning my gaze past the object of her obsession.
The idea was to keep on going, but his stare roots me to the spot.
The look in his eyes is lethal.
“It’s Cristiano,” I say on a gasp.
He’s leaning against a stool, his legs spread as if he’s much too tall to be accommodated. His elbows rest on the bar, his jacket falling open. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing just enough bare chest to make a woman’s throat go dry.
Sandrine stops at my side. “You know him?”
His eyes have locked mine into a battle of wills.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Honey, there is no ‘un’ about it. Who is he?”
“My fiancé’s brother.” As I say the words, they feel foreign. He’s more than that, but it’s way too much to articulate.
Her mouth hangs open, yet she still manages to speak. “Shit. I hope for your sake those ‘I want to bend you over and fuck you from here to Peru’ eyes run in the family.”
“I have to go talk to him.” His expression says it’s nonnegotiable. “I’ll be right back.”
The music pounds in my ears as I weave my way across the dance floor through writhing, sweaty bodies.
He doesn’t move an inch as I step right up to him. Doesn’t even sit up.
Cristiano has seen me on a night out once before, but this time feels different. This time he knows I’m engaged and that I probably shouldn’t be here.
I drop my eyes to the tumbler of whiskey he’s dangling between a finger and a thumb. I slide my hand around the glass, brushing against his, before lifting it to my lips. I’m shocked at my own behavior, but the way his gaze follows the movement and fixes on my mouth makes me feel bold.
I swallow and feel the smooth scotch heating my throat. Then I lick my lips and place the glass back in his hand. “Meeting someone?”
His gaze trails over my outfit, and frustratingly, his expression doesn’t register a thing. “No.”
“Then why are you here?”
He doesn’t owe me an explanation, but this boldness that’s come out of nowhere demands one anyway.
A corner of his mouth ticks up, but he wipes it away with a knuckle. “To keep an eye on you.”
A chill coasts over my shoulders. I raise a brow, impressed he doesn’t feel the need to sugarcoat it, and rest a hand casually on my hip. “Why?”
“Because my brother has had to go away on business, and I don’t trust you’re not going to get blind drunk again and embarrass our family.”
I don’t tell him I’m as sober as a judge. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.
“Excellent. My own personal bodyguard. I always wanted one of those.” In a move so uncharacteristic I hardly recognize myself, I lean past him to rest my forearms on the bar.
“Do you offer driving services too?” I glance over my shoulder.
“And fast-food delivery? Because I do love a thick, juicy burger after dancing all night.”
I can sense the irritation rolling off him, and it lights me up like nothing I’ve ever known.
“Don’t push it, Castellano.” Even with the thudding bass making the room vibrate, I don’t miss the threatening tone in his voice.
I turn my head another fraction. “Don’t push what? You’re the one following me. I’m just here with my friend, having a nice time. Besides, you shouldn’t care what I’m up to. I’m not married yet.”
“You’re engaged to be.” His voice is so low I can hardly hear it over the music.
I give up waiting for a bartender and spin around so I’m facing him. “So? That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself.”
My breath escapes when I see the look in his eyes. His gaze is aggressive as he roams it over me. “This dress . . .” he hisses. “It’s inappropriate.”
I’m surprised and slightly offended. Mostly, I’m sated. My dress is not inappropriate, but he’s noticed it, and that makes my pulse dance.
I cross my arms, his observation emboldening me even more. “Says who?”
His glare feels like a shock. I’ve called his bluff, and he doesn’t like it. He knows it’s not his place to say whether I’m dressed inappropriately or not.
“You need to stop telling me what to do. I’m not your principessa.”
His eyes remain indifferent, but his jaw works from side to side.
I continue, emboldened. “I’m the daughter of a hardworking businessman, and I’ve earned the right to stand here in this club with whomever I want, wearing whatever I want.”
Cristiano swallows, drawing my gaze to his throat, and without thinking, I stroke my tongue over my dry lips.
A tight grip around my wrist snaps my gaze back to his. He pulls me toward him—so close his lips warm the tip of my nose. He speaks slowly and quietly, yet the force of his words makes them unmistakable.
“I don’t give a fuck who your father is.
I don’t give a fuck what you have and haven’t earned the right to do.
I don’t give a fuck who you’re about to marry.
I don’t want you getting drunk out of your mind, because I could really do without blowing another man’s hands off.
” He pulls back and stares into my eyes. “If that’s all right with you.”
I yank my wrist from his grip but don’t move. I can’t when I’m panting so hard I’m lightheaded. Thank God he can’t hear how bothered his words have made me over the volume of the music.
I’m hot and restless.
I’m also fuming.
I spin around and strut toward Sandrine, grabbing her hand as I pass.
“Trouble in paradise?” she says, giggling.
I pull her impatiently to the restroom and walk straight up to the mirrors. With the sound dulled, I turn to face her.
“Do you have any scissors in your purse?”
“Yeah.” She cocks her head to one side. “And I have a chainsaw, a length of rope, and some gag tape, if you need those too.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” I remind her.
“What can I say? I left my sewing kit at home.”
My gaze skates across the counter. “How good are you at ripping fabric?”
She stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “What?”
“He’s here to babysit me, Sandrine, and I’m a grown woman, for God’s sake. I do not need a chaperone. He just had the nerve to tell me my outfit is inappropriate. I haven’t even married into the family yet! Can you believe it? Well, if he wants to see inappropriate, I’ll show him inappropriate.”
Sandrine has no concept of just how risky this is, my fiancé being the don of the city’s biggest Mafia family and all, and it’s evident in her squeal of, “Hell yeah!”