Chapter 17
LENI
I roll to my side the moment I wake up, stretching my hand across the bed. It’s cold. Empty. He never came in here to sleep. Or if he did, he left early. But I know the former is the truth.
This is his bedroom. Where did he sleep if not here? A guest bedroom?
I flop onto my back with a frustrated sigh, staring up at the white ceiling. I shouldn’t have snapped at him last night when he dodged my question. It’s not like I don’t know by now that getting personal details out of him is like squeezing water from a stone.
If I really want to know my brand-new fiancé, I either need to hire a PI to do a background check on him—just like I know he did with me—or be strategic about how I word my questions.
You don’t bulldoze a wounded cat—you coax it out slowly.
The thought makes me chuckle. Romero as a wounded cat? Please. Maybe a wounded lion. He might have his sweet moments, but he’s prickly as hell, as evidenced by his cutting words last night.
You should know by now that life isn’t fair, uccellino.
Trust me, I know it all too well…
But I’m not going to be mad at him anymore. The decision settles into my bones as I climb out of bed.
He got Ethan into NYU!
The excitement from last night comes rushing back as I reach for my phone from the nightstand to text my brother. But there’s already a message waiting for me.
ETHAN
When can I meet your fiancé, Leni? I need to make sure he’s right for you.
Right. I smirk.
What he means is he wants to get a closer look at Romero. He’s already got the man on some kind of pedestal, which… can’t end well. A twist of worry knots my stomach. I can’t let them get too close—it’ll only make it harder on Ethan next year when Romero and I divorce.
At my wedding.
Come over ASAP. I need to talk to you.
He replies with the peeping eye emoji.
ETHAN
Am I in trouble?
I roll my eyes, leaving him on read as I lock my phone. That should make him curious enough to light a fire under his ass. Another text chimes in.
ETHAN
I don’t have money for the bus or taxi. How do I get there?
Oh, please. Of course he’s fishing for money. I open my bank app, ready to send him what little I’ve got left, and my jaw drops, my eyes nearly bulging out of my skull. My balance boldly displays fifty thousand dollars with some change.
I blink hard, sure I’m misreading the balance, but the numbers don’t change. My hands are actually shaking as I stare at the screen, and I have to grip the phone tighter to keep from dropping it. Holy shit.
I thought he wasn’t going to send me the money until after we were legally married.
I send two hundred to Ethan and quickly close the app without looking at the balance again. Having that much in my account almost makes me sick, especially knowing I didn’t earn a cent of it.
I toss my phone back on the nightstand and escape to the ensuite, needing the ritual of normalcy. Brush teeth, shower, pretend everything is fine. I’m almost done when I hear the bedroom door open, and my heart nearly explodes from my chest with how fast and hard it starts hammering.
Is he going to come in here?
I freeze under the spray, straining to hear his footsteps. Nothing. Then another door opens—the walk-in closet? Is he just getting clothes for work, not coming to confront me about my dramatic exit last night?
I slip out of the shower, leaving the water running as I wrap a towel around my body and wait.
When I finally hear the bedroom door close again, I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
The tension drains from my shoulders, and I shut off the water.
Of course he wasn’t going to barge in here while I’m showering. Romero isn’t like that.
Still, when I step back into the bedroom, I make a beeline for the door and lock it. And even with it locked, I rush through getting dressed.
I need to talk to him about the money before he leaves for work. And now that my brain is fully awake, last night’s conversation flashes back—him mentioning dinner with his brothers. The Nightshades.
My pulse kicks up with anxiety. I’m about to have dinner with the most feared men in the city, and I’m supposed to convince them I’m madly in love with their brother.
Romero, I’m sure, is the calmest of the lot. Level-headed. Strategic. He deals with politicians and high-society types, after all.
But the others…
I’ve seen Rafael’s picture in the news a few times, and he looked scary as hell. Maximo Leonotti and Michael Hart too.
A shiver runs through me at the memory of Michael’s icy blue eyes, framed by the dark ink covering his skull. The small mop of blonde hair at the top of his head does nothing to soften the severity of his expression.
How the hell am I supposed to fool these men?
Once I’m dressed, I unlock the door cautiously and peek outside before making my way downstairs. Did Romero leave already? Did—there he is.
He steps into the living room from a door I know leads to his home office just as I reach the bottom of the stairs. He goes completely still, those vivid green eyes roaming down my body—and something dark flickers in them. Lust? Anger? What was it?
“What the hell is that?” he growls, taking a step towards me.
I freeze as his fingers brush feather-light over my cheek. Tingles race down my spine, my heart stuttering at the warmth of his touch spreading through me. That’s probably why it takes me a while to get what he’s talking about.
“What the hell is this, Leni?” he repeats, his briefcase dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. With both hands now free, he uses them to turn my chin so he can examine the left side of my face more closely.
Shit. The bruising from Mom’s slap yesterday.
I completely forgot I used makeup to conceal it last night.
“It’s nothing.” I pull my head out of his grip, taking a step away from him. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
His gaze darkens ominously. “Someone slapped you. Who?”
His tone makes it clear he’s not letting this go until I give him an answer. But damn it, I’ve got more important things to talk about. I huff out an impatient sigh. “I got into an argument with my mom yesterday. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” The word is soft, but it cracks like a whip, and I actually flinch. Fuck. I always forget what a dangerous man he is. “Does she make a habit of hitting you? Was she high?”
“N-no. It was–I–” I trail off when he steps closer, and I lick my lips nervously. “We argued. I said some mean things, and she hit me. She regretted it immediately.” My voice grows stronger, filled with confidence I’m not feeling. “It’s not going to happen again.”
“No,” he agrees, though his tone holds something I can’t quite place. “It’s never going to happen again.”
He turns and starts to leave, and I just stand there, watching him blankly. Now, what did that mean? He’s not going to hurt my mom, is he?
Of course not, I scold myself almost instantly. What a ridiculous thought, Leni.
He’s nearly at the door when I remember the reason I came downstairs in the first place. “Wait!” I call, hurrying after him. He stops with his hand on the door handle. “You deposited fifty grand into my account?”
“Yes, last night.” His voice is cool again—none of the anger from earlier showing. A shiver rolls down my spine at how expertly he can mask his emotions. He really is a dangerous man.
“It’s in the contract,” he continues. “Fifty grand every month until the divorce.”
That goddamned contract. “I don’t–I don’t want it.” What the hell am I even saying?
He turns to stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?”
“You paid off the full debt, which was why I came to you in the first place. You bought a house in my name. Got my brother into NYU and paid off all his academic expenses throughout his entire education.” I tick off each item on my fingers.
“That’s more than enough, Romero. If you keep sending me money…
I’ll start to feel like your kept whore. ”
The coldness in his gaze thaws. “You’re not a whore. We’re not even having sex.”
“Yet. We’re not having sex yet. But next week after the wedding, we will.
And I don’t want to feel like a bought prostitute afterwards.
” That would be truly awful. It’s already hard enough not to feel that way, but it’s easier because he hasn’t actually given me any money before today.
And like he said, we haven’t done anything yet.
He watches me for a long moment, and I fight the urge to fidget under his intense scrutiny. Is he going to argue with me about this? “Alright,” he finally accepts. “I already sent the first payment, so you can keep it. But I won’t send any more.”
A breath of relief flows through me. “Thank you.” He gives me a curt nod and turns towards the door again. “What–what are your expectations of me?”
He turns back to face me, a small frown creasing his forehead. “What do you mean?”
“Dinner tonight. We’re going to pretend to be in love with your brothers and their wives watching.
That’s a given.” And I’m going to try my hardest not to mess it up.
He’s done so much for me and my family, and this is the only thing he’s asking for in return—okay, maybe not the only thing, but still.
I’m going to be so convincingly in love with him, even he will start to believe it.
“But what happens after we get married?” I press on. “Yes, we’ll keep pretending to be in love and occasionally go out together. We—we’ll start being intimate and probably sleep in the same bed. But after that, what else?”
His frown deepens. “What else is there?”
“When we don’t need to go out together and you’re at work… do I just stay in here, locked up all day?” I’ll go crazy.
“You can do whatever you want. Take online courses if you want to get your bachelor’s degree. Anything.” He emphasizes the word as he checks his watch. “Can we talk about this later? I have a court appearance in two hours I need to prep for.”
“Oh… okay, good luck!”