Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bianca
The dining table could seat twenty people easily.
I'm sitting at one end, alone, staring at a place setting that looks like it belongs in a palace. Crystal glasses. China so delicate I'm afraid to touch it. Silverware heavy enough to be a weapon.
Maria brought my things an hour ago—or what's left of them. Apparently "things" meant three outfits, my toiletries, and the framed photo of Mom I keep on my nightstand. Everything else is being "assessed" by Dante's people, whatever the hell that means.
My dress from earlier was deemed "unsuitable" by Maria, who offered me something from what she called "the guest collection" with an apologetic smile.
I ended up in a simple navy dress that's somehow both modest and expensive, the kind of thing I'd never buy for myself because it costs more than my car payment.
At least it covers everything. No risk of accidental underwear reveals in this thing.
The house is massive. Obscenely so. Maria gave me a tour that felt like it lasted hours—the pool house, the gym, the library with more books than I could read in a lifetime, the media room with a screen the size of my classroom wall.
Every room perfectly decorated, perfectly clean, perfectly soulless.
It's like living in a museum where someone forgot to add the humanity.
I hate it.
The door at the far end of the dining room opens, and Dante walks in, still in that three-piece suit, looking like he just stepped out of a board meeting instead of whatever dirty girlfriend buying/mafia business he probably does.
His eyes sweep over me, taking in the new dress, my damp hair—I showered in a bathroom bigger than my bedroom back at home—and the untouched plate in front of me.
"Not hungry?" he asks, moving to the other end of the table. The far end. Like we're negotiating a treaty instead of sharing a meal.
"Not particularly." I lean back in my chair. "It's hard to work up an appetite when you've been kidnapped."
His eyes meet mine. Hot and cold at the same time. "You weren't kidnapped. You agreed to terms."
"Under duress."
"Same same." He pulls out his phone, starts scrolling through something. Not even looking at me.
The casual dismissal makes my blood boil.
"This is cozy," I say, gesturing to the cavernous room. "You eat alone in this palace every night? Or do you usually have your staff eat with you so you can pretend you have friends?"
Those eyes meet mine again and I have to bite my lower lip. Maybe I shouldn’t egg him in so bad.
"Careful." he purrs.
"Or what? You'll threaten my mother again? Already did that." I pick up a fork, examine it like it's fascinating. "Must be lonely, being you. All this money, all this power, and you're still eating dinner by yourself in a house that feels like a mausoleum."
"I don't remember asking for your psychological assessment."
"I don't remember asking to be here, so I guess we're both dealing with unwanted situations."
His jaw tightens. At least I can get a reaction out of him.
"I don't like being questioned in my own house," he says, his voice dropping to that soft, dangerous tone I'm starting to recognize. "About my choices. My lifestyle. Anything."
"Noted." I set the fork down with a deliberate clink. "I'll make sure to be more unbearable then."
The tiniest hint of amusement flashes across his face—but it's gone before I can be sure.
"You'll be presented to my family in a few days," he says, shifting gears like our confrontation didn't just happen. "My father's birthday. Big event. Lots of important people."
My stomach drops. "Already?"
"We don't have time to ease into this. You'll need to be convincing from the start." His gaze travels over me again, slower this time, and I hate the way my skin heats under his scrutiny. "Which brings me to your wardrobe situation."
"My wardrobe is fine." I glower.
"Your wardrobe looks like you're auditioning for a convent." He waves a dismissive hand. "Is there some religious objection I should know about?"
I want to throw a heavy fork at his head.
"I dress appropriately for my job," I say through clenched teeth. "Not everyone needs to look like they're headed to a nightclub."
"You're not a schoolteacher right now. You're my girlfriend. And my girlfriend doesn't dress like she's chaperoning a church youth group." He pulls out his phone again, types something. "I'll have someone bring options tomorrow. You'll pick what fits. We'll get the rest tailored."
"I don't need you to buy me clothes."
"Yes, you do. Unless you plan on showing up to meet my father in that." He nods at my dress. "Which would certainly make an impression. Just not the one I need."
"Maybe I should show up in exactly this," I shoot back. "Really sell the 'kidnapped schoolteacher' aesthetic. I'm sure that'll go over great with your family."
"You weren't—"
"Kidnapped, I know. You keep saying that like it makes this better." I stand, my chair scraping against the marble floor. "Is there anything else you need to criticize about me, or can I go figure out where I'm supposed to sleep in this mausoleum?"
He studies me for a long moment, and I can't read his expression. Then he starts to eat, dismissing me completely.
I watch with barely restrained anger as he cuts into his steak, uncaring.
If he could just choke on that food and—
He finishes eating, stands, buttoning his jacket.
"I have to go out. I won't be back until late." He heads for the door, pauses. "Maria will show you to your room."
"Can't wait," I mutter.
"And Bianca?" He looks back. "Try to get some rest. You're going to need your energy for what's coming."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in this ridiculous dining room with cold food and colder company.
Maria appears moments later, as if summoned by telepathy. "Ready to see your room, Miss Mancini?"
"Sure. Lead the way to whatever gilded cage he's picked out."
She pretends not to hear that, which is probably for the best.
We walk through hallways that all look the same—expensive art, plush carpet, lighting that's somehow both bright and moody. Maria stops at a door near what I'm guessing is the center of the house.
"Here we are," she says, opening it.
I step inside and freeze.
This isn't a guest room.
The space is massive, dominated by a king-size bed with charcoal gray bedding that looks expensive as hell.
There's a sitting area with leather chairs, a desk with a laptop I definitely don't own, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens.
The closet door is open, revealing suits.
Expensive watches on a display case. Men's shoes lined up with military precision.
"This is his room," I say flatly.
Maria's smile is apologetic. "Mr. Vitale thought you'd be more comfortable—"
"In his bed? How thoughtful." I turn to her. "Where's a guest room around here?"
"Well, there are several, but Mr. Vitale specifically said—"
"I don't care what he specifically said." I grab my small bag of belongings. "Show me literally any other room. I’ll sleep on the couch if I have to.”
"Miss Mancini, I really think—"
"Please, Maria." I soften my tone because none of this is her fault. "I just need my own space. Even if it's small. Especially if it's small."
She hesitates, then nods. "There's a room down the hall. It's smaller, but it has an en suite bathroom and—"
"Perfect. Show me."
We walk down the hall, past three more doors, until she opens one that's maybe a quarter of the size of Dante's room. It's still bigger than my apartment bedroom, with a queen bed, simple furniture, and windows that overlook the side garden instead of the main grounds.
It's not dripping with wealth and testosterone.
It'll do.
"This is great," I say, setting my bag on the bed. "Thank you, Maria."
"Are you sure? Mr. Vitale was very clear—"
"Mr. Vitale will survive the disappointment." I pull out the photo of Mom, set it on the nightstand. "I'm not sleeping in his bed like some kind of call girl waiting for her appointment."
Maria's eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't argue. "I'll let him know you've chosen a different room."
"You do that."
She leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
I sit on the edge of the bed, finally alone for the first time since this nightmare started. The room is quiet. Too quiet. I can't hear traffic or neighbors, or any of the normal sounds that remind me I'm part of the world.
Just silence and luxury and the crushing weight of what I've agreed to.
I pull out my phone, and dial Mom's number but it goes straight to voicemail—she's probably sleeping. The doctors keep her sedated most of the time now, managing the pain that comes with late-stage cancer.
"Hey, Mom," I say after the beep. "Just wanted to hear your voice. I'm, uh, I'm staying somewhere new for a while. For work stuff. Don't worry about me. I love you."
I hang up before my voice can crack.
Then I lie back on the bed—the enormous, expensive bed in a house that costs more than I'll make in ten lifetimes—and stare at the ceiling.
A handful of hours ago, I was a schoolteacher with a dying mother and a mediocre boyfriend.
Now I'm a mobster's fake girlfriend, living in his palace, preparing to lie to his family.
I close my eyes and try to remember what normal felt like.
I'm pretty sure I've forgotten.