Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Dante
I'm halfway to the door when I hear her move.
Not toward the exit like a smart woman would. No, I hear her stomping footsteps right behind me.
"Wait!”
I pause, hand on the doorknob, and glance back.
Bianca stands in the center of the room, surrounded by my men who suddenly look too large, too rough next to her small frame. She can't be more than five-one, maybe five-two in those modest heels.
She’s supposed to look weak but there’s nothing weak about the way she's standing there, chest rising and falling with each sharp, angry breath, her long chestnut hair slightly disheveled.
Her hazel eyes—greener than brown in this light—are locked on me with such emotion that most men would be uncomfortable.
I'm not most men.
And I'm noticing things I shouldn't. My eyes trail down the curve of her neck where it meets her collarbone, zone in on the way her modest blouse has come untucked slightly on one side, exposing soft, creamy looking sides.
The flush spreading across her cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with rage.
She's beautiful in that understated way women are when they don't know it. When they're not trying. No makeup to speak of, just natural skin and full lips pressed into a tight line.
Adrian is an even bigger idiot than I thought.
I notice the way her eyes water but not with tears, rather with anger.
Good. Anger I can work with. Tears would be tedious.
"You can't just walk away," she says, her voice shaking. "You drop this… this bomb on me and then leave? What kind of—"
"What kind of man am I?" I turn fully, casually sliding my hands into my pockets and shrug. "The kind who doesn't waste time on pointless conversations. You agreed to the terms. What else is there to discuss?"
"Everything!" She takes a step forward, and Marco shifts, ready to intervene. I wave him off with a little scoff. "You say I belong to you now, that I have to obey you, but you haven't told me what you actually want. What am I supposed to do? Be your—your maid? Your—"
"My wife."
Silence.
She stops mid-sentence, mouth still open, and clamps shut. Her eyes flash. “I said I’m not going to sleep with you.” She growls and I chuckle.
“And I said I don’t want you to.”
That little bit might be a lie. I admit I wouldn’t mind to see if her lips are as soft as they look, if she tastes as feisty and raw as she acts.
I watch understanding flicker across her face. Then disbelief. Then hysterical laughter.
"Your wife," she repeats slowly.
"Temporary wife. For appearances." I check my watch—platinum Patek Philippe, a gift from Matteo after a triple homicide burial. "My father is pressuring me to marry. A political alliance with a woman I have no interest in. You're going to help me avoid that."
"By pretending to be in love with you."
"Exactly."
She laughs then, sharp and bitter, rubbing her hands through her hair. "You're insane. You know that, right? Completely insane."
"Perhaps." I study her—the way she's standing with her weight forward like she's ready to fight, the way her fingers keep finding that gold cross at her throat. "But you're still standing here instead of running. Which tells me you understand exactly what's at stake."
Her jaw tightens. "My mother."
"Your mother," I agree.
A tear drops down her eye and I watch it roll down to her cheeks. “You're heartless," she whispers.
I raise a brow. "In my world, Miss Mancini, anything else means weakness. Weakness gets you killed, your boyfriend understood that. He chose survival over loyalty. Smart man."
"He's a coward!”
"He's alive."
She flinches, and I know I've made my point.
The mention of mothers—of watching someone waste away while you're powerless to stop it—sends a cold spike through my gut. I see my own mother's face for a split second. The glassy eyes. The smell of vodka and vomit. The way her hand went slack in mine.
I crush the memory before it can take root.
"So." Bianca straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin. "If I'm going to do this, I have conditions."
The audacity of it makes me want to laugh. Or applaud. I settle for an amused tilt of my head. "Conditions."
"Yes."
"You're not in a position to negotiate."
"Then I won't cooperate." She crosses her arms. "You can drag me to your house, dress me up, parade me around, but I won't smile. I won't play the loving girlfriend. I'll make you look like exactly what you are—a monster who bought a woman."
Interesting.
Most people fold when I apply pressure. They beg, they cry, they accept whatever scraps I throw them. But this schoolteacher with her bargain store clothes and gold cross is standing in a room full of men who could break her in half, and she's making demands.
I find myself intrigued despite my better judgment.
"You think you have leverage here?" I take a step toward her. Then another.
Slow. Deliberate. Trying to make her squirm.
"I know I do." She doesn't back away, looks down at our feet. "You need me to be convincing. To play a role. I can't do that if I'm miserable."
Another step. We're close enough now that I can see the pulse hammering in her throat. Close enough to smell her perfume—creamy vanilla and sunlight.
"You're assuming I care whether you're miserable."
"You do." Her voice drops. "Because if this falls apart, you're stuck marrying whoever your father picked. And something tells me you'd rather eat glass than let him control you."
Smart girl.
I reach up, slow enough that she can see it coming, and brush my thumb along her cheekbone. Her skin is soft, warm, and she doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just holds my gaze with those hazel eyes.
Her breath hitches—just slightly—but I catch it. Catch the way her pupils dilate. The way her lips part on a soft gasp that I don’t hear.
She's scared. Furious. Trapped.
And attracted.
The last part surprises me. Surprises her too, judging by the way color floods her cheeks when she realizes her reaction as well.
Well, this just got even more interesting.
"You have guts, Miss Mancini. I'll give you that." I let my hand drift down to her jaw, tilt her face up slightly. "But guts without sense gets people hurt."
"Then hurt me." She challenges. "Add it to the list of things you've already done."
I step back, putting distance between us before this goes somewhere I'm not prepared to take it. Not yet, anyway.
"What are your conditions?" I ask, straightening my cuffs.
She blinks, clearly thrown by the sudden shift. "W-What?"
"Your conditions. You said you had some. Let's hear them."
"I—" She swallows, regains her footing. "I want to keep teaching."
My brows shoot up. I expected her to ask for money. For her mother to be moved to a better facility. For some guarantee of safety or freedom.
Not a job that pays thirty thousand a year and comes with construction paper stuck to everything.
"Teaching," I repeat.
"Yes. My students need me. I won't abandon them."
"Your students will be fine. Schools have substitute teachers."
"No." The word is flat, final. "That's non-negotiable. I keep my job, or you can find someone else to play dress-up with."
I study her face, looking for the angle. The manipulation. But all I see is fierce protectiveness—the same expression she probably wears when one of her seven-year-olds is being bullied.
She actually cares about those kids.
Huh.
It's such a foreign concept in my world that I almost don't recognize it.
"Fine," I say. "You keep the job. But if it interferes with what I need from you, it goes. Clear?"
"Crystal." She touches that pendant again, fingers worrying the gold. "And I want to see my mother. Once a week. No exceptions."
"Done."
"That's it?" She looks suspicious now. "You're just agreeing?"
"I expected you'd want to see her. I'm not trying to erase your life, Miss Mancini.
Just borrow it for a while." I head for the door again.
"But understand this—you will obey me. When I tell you to be somewhere, you're there.
When I tell you to smile, you smile. When I tell you to convince my family that you're desperately in love with me, you do it without question.
You embarrass me, make me look like a fool, or try to run? "
I turn back, let her see the coldness in my eyes.
"Your mother doesn't just lose her spot at St. Catherine's. She disappears into the worst public facility I can find. And I'll make sure you have visiting rights, so you can watch every excruciating moment of her decline. We clear?"
The color drains from her face, but she doesn't look away. "Clear."
"Good."
"What if I need more time?"
"You don't."
I open the door, step into the hallway. The smoke and closed air of the apartment give way to the stale corridor, and I can finally breathe again.
I have what I need. A woman who's desperate enough to cooperate and smart enough to pull off the act. A woman with enough fire that no one will question why I chose her over Caterina fucking Belland.
And a woman who, despite everything, looks at me with something other than fear.
That last part is going to be a problem.
But I've dealt with worse problems before.
This should be easy.