Chapter 7 Alessandro
“Let me be clear about our arrangement.”
I don't look at my wife as the Bentley glides through Chicago's Gold Coast toward the Marchetti estate. She's pressed against the opposite door, as far from me as the leather seats allow, staring out at the city lights like they hold secrets she's trying to decode.
"You'll wear my ring. Bear my name. Stand beside me at events like tonight's.
" I adjust my cufflinks, the Rosetti crest catching the passing streetlights.
"But that's where it ends. I didn't choose this marriage, and I won't pretend otherwise.
I'll be discreet, of course, but don't expect faithfulness from a man who was forced to the altar. "
She turns slightly, and I catch her profile—delicate features. The careful stillness of her hands.
"I understand," she says quietly. No tears, no protests, no demanding to know about my intentions. Just acceptance.
It irritates me for reasons I can't name.
"The Marchettis are old family allies," I continue, needing to fill the silence. "Play the devoted wife for a few hours. Smile, don't speak unless spoken to, and try not to embarrass yourself. Or me."
"Of course."
Two words, neutral as water, and yet they make my jaw clench. Every other woman I've known would be raging or crying or trying to seduce me into compliance by now. Frances just… accepts. Like she expected nothing more.
"Though if you'd like to negotiate exclusive rights," I add, unable to stop myself, "I'm willing to hear your… proposal. I've been told I'm worth the investment."
She doesn't even crack a smile.
The Bentley pulls up to the Marchetti mansion, and I exit first, coming around to offer her my hand.
It's all performance, but when her fingers slide into mine, there's a jolt of something electric.
She's wearing the dress I had sent to her suite—black silk that molds to her body like liquid shadow, the neckline revealing just enough to be respectable while hinting at more.
The dress cost more than most people make in a year, chosen to mark her as mine, as Rosetti property.
What I didn't expect was how she'd look in it.
Frances Hewson should wear it like armor, like the entitled princess she is.
But my wife wears it like… like she's playing a part.
Like the silk is a costume she's not quite comfortable in.
She descends from the car with careful steps, not the confident stride of someone born to wealth but the measured pace of someone afraid to damage something that doesn't belong to them.
Interesting.
"Alessandro!" Vivienne's voice cuts through the night air like nails on crystal. "How wonderful to see you."
My former mistress glides over in red silk that leaves nothing to imagination, her hands immediately finding my chest in a possessive gesture she's perfected over our two-year arrangement. An arrangement that ended three months ago, though she seems determined to forget that detail.
Two years we'd played our game. She'd leave her husband's bed to come to mine, still wearing the jewelry he'd bought her. I liked the irony. She liked the danger. We both got bored eventually—she just hasn't accepted it yet.
"Vivienne." I don't step back, but I don't encourage her either. Let Frances see what kind of man she's married. "You remember my wife."
Vivienne's green eyes slide over Frances like she's collecting flaws.
"Of course. The blushing bride. How… sweet.
" She doesn't move her hands from my chest. "I was just telling Bianca that Alessandro always did prefer women with experience.
But I suppose arranged marriages aren't about preference, are they? "
I expect Frances to flinch, to react with jealousy or hurt. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, studying Vivienne with those dark eyes that give nothing away.
"How fortunate then," she says, her voice carrying a hint of something I can't identify, "that my husband has such… accessible options for his preferences. It must be comforting to always have something familiar to return to."
Vivienne blinks, not quite catching the insult. But I do. My wife just called my former mistress common and predictable, all while smiling like a saint.
"Shall we go in?" Frances asks, touching my arm lightly. "I believe the Marchettis are waiting."
She guides us past Vivienne with the grace of someone born to it, except… except her hand on my arm trembles slightly.
The ballroom is already packed with Chicago's criminal elite.
The Marchettis know how to throw a party—crystal chandeliers throwing diamonds of light across marble floors, champagne flowing like water, enough security to stop a small army.
I make the rounds with Frances on my arm, introducing my wife to associates and enemies alike.
"Beautiful and intelligent," Giovanni Serrano, the ancient don of the Serrano family, says approvingly, patting her hand. "You chose well, Alessandro."
I didn't choose at all, but I don't correct him. I'm too busy watching my wife charm a man who hasn't smiled since his son died ten years ago.
We meet with Sofia and Nico in the room’s center, and I watch as Emma goes quiet, inert.
Sofia's phone buzzes, and I watch her face drain of color as she reads the screen.
She recovers quickly, that perfect Rosetti composure snapping back into place, but her hand trembles slightly as she slips the phone into her clutch.
When Nico asks if everything's alright, she laughs it off as a charity committee emergency.
But her eyes keep drifting toward the Russian delegation across the room, and she doesn't touch her champagne for the rest of the evening.
I must remember to ask Dante if he knows what’s going on with her; he and Sofia were always close.
"Alessandro, darling!" Another voice, another former conquest. Bianca Abbascia, wearing white that makes her look like a virgin sacrifice despite being anything but. "Dance with me. For old times' sake?"
She's already pulling me toward the dance floor, and I let her because this is what I do. What I've always done. I collect beautiful women like some men collect cars, enjoying them until I get bored, then moving on to the next model.
But as Bianca presses against me, her perfume cloying and her hands possessive, I find myself looking over her shoulder. Frances is standing by the champagne fountain, and Federico Calese—young, ambitious, and stupid enough to test me—is moving toward her like a shark scenting blood.
"Your wife seems lonely," Bianca purrs, following my gaze. "Poor thing. It must be so hard to be married to a man who everyone knows won't touch her. I heard you haven't even consummated—"
I spin her away mid-sentence, already walking off the dance floor. Bianca calls after me, but I'm focused on Vincent, who's now standing too close to my wife, his hand on her lower back as he whispers something in her ear.
"Federico." My voice carries enough threat to make him step back. "I believe you were just leaving."
"Alessandro." He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "I was just keeping your lovely wife company. She seemed abandoned."
My hand finds his throat before conscious thought, slamming him against the nearest marble column. The room doesn't stop—violence at these events is expected—but there's a subtle shift in attention.
"Touch my wife again," I say quietly, pressure on his windpipe just enough to make him wheeze, "and I'll mail pieces of you to your mother until she runs out of tears. Understand?"
He nods frantically, and I release him. When I turn, Frances is watching me with an expression I can't read. Not fear, not gratitude. Something else. Something that makes my blood heat.
"Dance with me," I command, not asking.
She comes without hesitation, and I pull her onto the floor perhaps more roughly than necessary.
The orchestra is playing something slow and classical, forcing us close.
Her hand in mine is more hesitant than I expected, more delicate.
She smells different than the other women here—no overwhelming perfume, just something clean and soft that makes me want to lean closer.
"You didn't have to do that," she says as we move together.
"You're a Rosetti now. No one touches my things."
"Even if you don't want them?"
The question catches me off-guard. I look down at her. "What makes you think I don't want you?"
She laughs, soft and bitter. "You made your feelings quite clear in the car."
We turn, and I pull her closer, close enough to feel her breath catch. "Did I?"
"You said—"
"I know what I said." My hand spreads across her lower back, feeling the heat of her through silk. "But you're not what I expected, Frances."
Something flickers in her eyes. Fear? "What did you expect?"
"Tears. Tantrums. Demands for attention, for affection, for the fairy tale you were promised.
" I spin her, bringing her back against my chest. "Instead, you listen to boring old men tell war stories.
You insult my former mistresses with a smile.
You don't even flinch when I nearly strangle someone for touching you. "
"Should I flinch?"
"Most would."
She doesn't reply. The song ends, but I don't release her. Can't seem to make my hands let go. She's looking up at me with those dark eyes that hold secrets I suddenly want to uncover.
"Alessandro." Marco's voice breaks the spell. My brother stands at the edge of the dance floor, his expression carefully neutral. "The Contis want to discuss the harbor situation."
Business. Always business. I release Frances, already missing the warmth of her against me. "Wait by the bar. I'll be back."
She nods, moving away with that same careful grace, and I force myself to focus on the matter at hand.
The Conti meeting is predictable—they want a bigger cut of the harbor profits, I remind them why that won't happen, everyone leaves unhappy but alive.
If my reminder doesn't work, we'll have to bring in Luca.
When I return to the bar, Frances is gone.
I find her on the terrace, helping a young server who's dropped an entire tray of champagne.
She's on her knees in that expensive dress, gathering glass with careful hands while the server nearly cries with relief.
It's such an odd sight—a mafia wife doing servant's work—that I simply stand and watch.
""Careful, princess," I say. "On your knees in that dress is giving me ideas we can't pursue at a Marchetti party. They're traditional about public displays."
She looks up, startled, and for just a moment, I see something raw in her expression. Fear. Not of me, but of being caught. Being seen.
"It's just fabric," she says, standing and smoothing her skirt. The server scurries away with the broken glass, and we're alone on the terrace, city lights stretching below us.
"Most people would have let him handle it."
"You keep thinking I'm like most people," she says, a small smile playing at her lips.
I move closer, drawn by something I can't name. "But you're not. Most people bore me within minutes. You've managed to keep my attention for an entire evening. That's either very dangerous or very promising. Possibly both. You're a puzzle, Frances Hewson."
She tenses. "Everyone has secrets."
"What are yours?"
She looks up at me, and for a moment, I think she might tell me. Might reveal whatever truth she's hiding behind those careful smiles and measured words. But then Vivienne's laugh cuts through the night air, and the moment breaks.
"Your girlfriend is looking for you," she says, stepping back.
"She's not my—" I stop, frustrated. Why am I explaining myself to my arranged wife? "We should go."
The ride home is silent, but it's a different silence than before. Charged. I'm hyperaware of her every movement, every breath.
When we arrive at the compound, she turns to me before getting out. "Thank you. For your help with Federico."
"I told you. No one touches what's mine."
"Right. Property protection." She sounds almost amused. "Goodnight, Alessandro."
She's out of the car before I can respond, walking into the house with that same careful grace, leaving me with the taste of her perfume and questions I shouldn't want answered.
I stay in the car for a long moment, thinking about Vivienne's hands on my chest that felt wrong, Bianca's familiar body against mine that suddenly held no appeal. Thinking about my wife on her knees in silk, helping someone beneath her station with instinctive kindness.
Frances Hewson is hiding something. And for the first time in my life, I want something more than just a woman's body.
I want her secrets.
I want her truth.
I want her.
The realization is unwelcome, inconvenient, and undeniable. My arranged wife, the woman I swore to keep at arm's length, has somehow slipped under my skin in a single evening.
Tomorrow, I'll investigate. Tomorrow, I'll maintain distance.
Tonight, I pour myself a whiskey and try not to think about how perfectly she fit in my arms.
Tonight, I fail.