Chapter 15 - Alessandro
Before we get to spend the night together and I can make good on my promise to show Emma exactly how much I want her, we have to make it through dinner.
Emma's hand trembles slightly as she adjusts the sapphire necklace I selected, and I wonder if my family can smell her fear like blood in the water, if they're already circling for the kill.
"Remember," I murmur against Emma's ear as we enter, my hand possessive on her lower back, fingers splaying to claim more territory, "they test because they care. Cruelty is how we show love in this family."
She manages a slight smile, but I feel the tension thrumming through her body where it presses against mine. The sapphire at her throat catches the light with each shallow breath. I chose it specifically: the exact shade of the Rosetti family crest.
Cocktail hour has already begun. Marco stands by the fireplace, watching our entrance with those dark eyes that miss nothing. To his right, Dante signs something to Nico, who nods. Sofia perches on the leather sofa like a blonde viper in cream silk, her smile sweet enough to rot teeth.
"The newlyweds arrive," Marco says, voice carrying that particular tone that makes grown men reconsider their life choices. "Nearly three weeks married and already forgetting family obligations?"
"How could I forget?" I guide Emma forward, keeping my touch light but present, thumb stroking the base of her spine through silk. "Emma was simply ensuring she looked perfect for the family."
Marco's gaze travels over her methodically. The navy dress I selected hugs her curves without being vulgar, expensive enough to show respect, conservative enough to show sense. His eyes linger on the sapphire necklace, and I see the slight nod: not approval, just acknowledgment.
"Drink?" Nico appears with a tray, ever the perfect soldier even in social situations.
"The Chateau Margaux," I answer, knowing Emma needs liquid courage. The '82 vintage carries weight in every sip, tastes like old money and new violence: perfect for a Rosetti table where both flow freely.
As she takes the crystal glass, I notice how she holds it: both hands at first, like she's afraid she'll drop something so delicate, before adjusting to one hand when she catches Sofia watching.
These little tells that only I see, the servant habits she can't quite shake.
They make my cock harder than it should at a family dinner. Christ, the way she tries so hard.
"Where are Luca and Faith?" I ask, noting their absence.
"Pregnancy complications," Marco replies curtly. "Doctor's orders to rest."
"So," Marco continues, settling into his leather chair with the kind of authority that reshapes rooms around him. "Tell me about these new transport routes you've been proposing, Alessandro. Through Hewson territory."
A test within a test. Business talk to see if Emma knows our operations, if she's been listening, if she can be trusted with family secrets.
"The northern corridors are more efficient," I reply smoothly, watching Emma from the corner of my eye. "With the Hewson connection, we avoid the Irish completely."
"And the Hewsons are reliable?" Marco's tone suggests he already knows the answer. "I hear they've had some… difficulties lately. That boy, Tommy Pitt, arrested for assault. Prison riots are so… unpredictable."
Emma's fingers tighten imperceptibly on her wine glass. Anyone else would miss it, but I see everything about her now. The way her breath catches for half a second before she schools her features into polite interest.
I picture this Tommy's face, imagine introducing myself with a crowbar to his knees if he ever threatens what Emma's sacrificed for him. The thought of another man commanding such loyalty from her makes violence pool in my gut, even if he is her brother.
"How awful," she says, voice pitched perfectly between concern and distance. "Prison can be so dangerous for the unprepared."
Marco's eyes sharpen with interest. Not the response he expected from a sheltered heiress. "Indeed."
"Shall we move to dinner?" Marco suggests, ending the moment before it can escalate.
The formal dining room feels smaller with all of us around the table.
I seat Emma to my right, keeping her within easy reach, my hand immediately finding her thigh under the tablecloth.
The touch is possessive, grounding for both of us.
She doesn't pull away, if anything her legs part slightly, and fuck, that small surrender makes me adjust myself under the table.
The courses begin to arrive: seven in total, each one another opportunity for her to stumble over etiquette she supposedly learned in Switzerland.
The salad course arrives with its collection of silver implements, and I watch Emma study the forks for a fraction of a second before selecting one. She chooses correctly, but the hesitation is there for anyone looking closely enough.
And Sofia is always looking.
"Oh darling," my sister coos, her voice dripping false concern. "You're holding that fork so tightly! Like you're afraid someone might snatch it away." She laughs, the sound like crystal breaking. "Don't worry, we're not that kind of family. Well, not at dinner anyway."
My fingers itch for the knife in my jacket, imagining Sofia's perfect manicure ruined by broken fingers. Only the fact she's family keeps her bones intact. My other hand tightens on Emma's thigh, feeling her tremble.
"You know," Sofia continues, voice still honeyed, "some people have these habits they simply can't shake. The way they handle crystal so carefully, like it might shatter. The way they eat quickly, efficiently. But I'm sure that's just… adjustment stress. Right, darling?"
But then something shifts in Emma's expression. The fear doesn't disappear, but dignity rises alongside it, transforming her face into something almost regal. She sets down her fork deliberately, straightens her spine until she could balance a book on her head.
"You're absolutely right," Emma says, her voice steady now. "I do have habits."
Sofia's eyes glitter with triumph, but Emma isn't finished.
"I have the habit of recognizing insecurity when it dresses itself in designer silk.
" Emma's voice stays soft, controlled, which makes it more devastating.
"I have the habit of seeing when someone feels so threatened by another woman at their table that they need to establish dominance through… what did you call it? Sweet concern?"
Sofia's mouth opens, but Emma continues with that same regal calm.
"You've been circling me since I arrived, looking for weakness while pretending to help. But here's what your 'concern' reveals: you're terrified. Terrified that someone who doesn't play by your rules might actually belong here. That someone who wasn't born into this family might earn it instead."
Watching her transform from frightened prey into this dignified queen makes my cock so hard I can barely think straight. Christ, I'm going to fuck her against the wall the moment we're alone, make her scream while she's still wearing that dignity like armor.
"How dare you," Sofia starts, the sweetness finally dropping.
Dante's hands move sharply: "Stop, Sofia. She's ours now."
The declaration from my mute brother, who never wastes a gesture, reshapes the entire room. Even Sofia understands what just happened.
"Enough," Marco says, that single word absolute. He rises, selecting his wine glass with deliberate precision. The crystal catches candlelight as he raises it.
"To Frances," he says, using her assumed name with particular weight. "Don't disappoint us."
Simple. Direct. But from Marco, it's a benediction. The family drinks, accepting her into the fold through the patriarch's decree.
I can't help the pride that floods through me, mixing with the arousal that's been building since Emma found her spine. My hand slides higher on her thigh, fingers tracing the edge of her stockings. She doesn't pull away. If anything, she shifts slightly to give me better access. Fuck.
"Thank you," Emma says to Marco, her voice steady though I feel her pulse racing under my touch. "I understand what this family represents. I won't disappoint that trust."
"Good." Marco sits back down, already moving on.
Sofia stands abruptly, her chair scraping against hardwood. Her sweet mask is completely gone now, replaced by barely controlled fury.
"If you'll excuse me," she says tightly, "I need air."
Sofia touches my shoulder as she passes. "Just be careful, brother. The last time you trusted too quickly…" She doesn't finish, but the concern in her eyes is real beneath the ice.
She leaves without waiting for permission, her heels clicking sharp against marble. The sound fades, leaving behind a different kind of silence: settled, like blood after a clean kill.
Dante signs something complex to Marco, something about security protocols for tomorrow.
The conversation shifts to business, territory disputes, the Irish getting too bold near the docks.
Emma listens more than speaks, but when she does contribute, it's with that same quiet intelligence that dismantled Sofia's attack.
Watching her navigate this world, my world, with growing confidence makes me want to reward her in ways that will have her screaming my name. The way she claimed her place at our table, Christ, I'm going to make her come so hard tonight she forgets her own name.
Soon the formal dinner winds down. Nico excuses himself for security rounds, and Ana and Valentina follow. Dante and Marco remain, discussing Sofia’s behavior in rapid sign language.
"We should go," I say, helping Emma from her chair, letting my hands linger on her waist. "It's been an eventful evening."
Marco nods. I guide Emma toward the door, my hand possessive on her lower back, already imagining how she'll look bent over our bed, that dignity cracking as I make her beg.
We're almost to the stairs when Sofia's voice cuts through the hallway.
"Alessandro. A word."
She's been waiting, positioned perfectly to intercept us. Emma tenses beside me, but I squeeze her waist.
"Go ahead to our room," I tell her. "I'll be just a moment."
Emma looks between us, clearly reluctant to leave me alone with Sofia after tonight's confrontation. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." I kiss her forehead, marking territory even in this simple gesture. "I'll be up soon."
She goes, but I see her glance back once before disappearing up the stairs. The click of her heels feel final, like a coffin lid.
Sofia waits until we're alone before she corners me against the wall, her blue eyes blazing with something between fury and fear.
"She's not who she claims to be," she hisses, keeping her voice low. "I know it, you know it, and if you weren't so fucking pussy-drunk you'd see how dangerous this is."
"Watch your tone," I warn, but Sofia's past caring about hierarchy tonight.
"No, you watch everything you've built crumble when the truth comes out. Because it will, Alex. Secrets this big don't stay buried." She steps closer, and I smell wine on her breath, see the slight tremor in her hands. "I've been watching her since the wedding. Something’s off, Alex."
My blood chills, but I keep my expression neutral. "You're paranoid."
"I'm right." Her laugh is bitter, sharp. "That woman at our table tonight? She's not Frances Hewson. I'd stake my life on it. And when the truth comes out, when our enemies discover you've been harboring some impostor, it will destroy everything. Every alliance, every piece of credibility, gone."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She pulls out her phone, shows me a blurry photo from what looks like a service entrance. "This servant bears a remarkable resemblance to your precious bride. Same height, same build, same way of walking with her head down like she's trying to be invisible."
The photo is too blurry to be definitive, but the threat is clear. Sofia's investigating, and she's getting close.
"Leave it alone," I say quietly, putting all my authority into the words.
"I can't." Sofia's voice cracks slightly. "Don't you see? When this comes out, and it will, they won't just come for her. They'll come for all of us. For the family that was stupid enough to be fooled. For you, for Marco, for…" She stops, swallows hard. "I won't let your dick destroy this family."
"What I do about my wife is my business."
"Not when it affects all of us!" The words explode from her, louder than she intended. She immediately looks around, checking we're still alone. "Jesus, Alessandro. What hold does she have on you? What is she that you'd risk everything?"
Protecting Emma from outsiders is simple: I break them. But protecting her from Sofia means choosing between blood and obsession. The fact I'm choosing Emma worries me less than it should.
"She's mine," I say simply. "That's all that matters."
Sofia stares at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. "When the truth destroys everything: your reputation, our business, maybe our lives, remember that you chose this. You chose her over us."
She stalks away before I can respond, her heels clicking against marble like bullets being chambered. The warning hangs in the air like smoke from a fired gun.
Tomorrow, Sofia will keep digging. Tomorrow, the threats will get closer. Tomorrow, I'll have to decide between the family I was born into and the woman who's become my obsession.
But tonight? Tonight, Emma is waiting upstairs, probably replaying every moment of her triumph at dinner.
Tonight, I get to reward her courage in ways that will make her forget every threat, every danger, every reason she should run.
Tonight, I get to make good on the promises I made her at the charity luncheon and show her exactly what Emma Rosetti means to me.