Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dante
Congressman Mike Patterson is an idiot.
I spend three hours in his office—mahogany desk, American flag in the corner, photos of him shaking hands with people more important than he'll ever be—listening to him posture about "constituents" and "ethical concerns" while what he really means is "I want more money."
Everyone has a price. Patterson's just happens to be higher than I initially calculated.
By the time I leave with his reluctant agreement to support our construction bid, I'm exhausted and irritated. And now I have to attend dinner at his house next week, make small talk with his vapid wife, and pretend I give a damn about his political aspirations.
The drive back to Alpine does nothing to improve my mood.
Marco pulls through the gates at seven-thirty. The house is lit up, warm light spilling from the windows, but it still feels cold. Lifeless. A museum, like Bianca called it. One I happen to sleep in.
I head straight for my office, loosening my tie as I go. I have emails to answer, calls to return, a report from Rafe about the Bronx territory that needs my attention.
But I pause in the hallway.
Bianca's door is closed. Light shows underneath.
I should leave her alone. Let her settle in. We still have days before the party, and I need her cooperative, not hostile.
Instead, I knock.
"Come in," she calls.
I open the door and stop.
She's sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop open, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her thighs and gray sweatpants that look like they've seen better days. Her hair is pulled up in a messy knot, and she's wearing glasses I didn't know she needed.
She looks like she's auditioning for a college student role, not like the woman who's supposed to convince my family she belongs at my side.
Somehow, she still looks appealing.
"Are you immune to clothes that actually touch your body?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
She looks up, and I catch the flash of annoyance in her eyes. "Hello to you too."
"That's what you're wearing?"
"I'm in my room doing work. What does it matter what I'm wearing?"
"It matters because I had an entire wardrobe delivered this morning. Expensive, tailored pieces that would actually fit you. And instead, you're dressed like—"
"Like what?" She closes the laptop, swings her legs off the bed. "Like a normal person? Like someone who's comfortable?"
"Like you're trying to make a point."
"Maybe I am." She stands, crosses her arms. "The clothes you sent are ridiculous. I'm not wearing them."
"They're appropriate for the events you'll be attending with me."
"They're hooker clothes, Dante. Short, tight, barely there. I teach second-graders. I'm not dressing like that."
"Interesting," I say slowly, "that your underwear can be lace and see-through, but your outer clothes have to be modest. Care to explain that logic?"
Her face flushes. "That's different."
"How?"
"It just is."
"Not an answer, Miss Mancini."
She turns away, moves to the window. "I don't owe you explanations about my clothing choices."
But there's something in her voice—something defensive, almost raw—that catches my attention.
Interesting.
I step fully into the room, close the door behind me. "You do when those choices reflect on me. When you're representing me to my family and business associates."
"Then maybe you should've thought of that before you bought someone who doesn't fit your aesthetic."
"I bought someone who agreed to follow my instructions. That includes wardrobe."
"Oh, come on. You bought someone desperate enough to agree to anything to save her mother." She turns back, and there's fire in her eyes now. "Don't mistake compliance for enthusiasm."
Fair point.
I move closer, and she doesn't back away. Doesn't flinch. Just holds her ground with a stubborn tilt to her chin and it is turning me on, big time.
"The clothes stay," I say. "You'll wear them when I tell you to. No arguments."
"And what if I don't?"
"Then we revisit the terms of our agreement."
"You mean you threaten my mother again."
I show my teeth. "Precisely."
She laughs and shakes her head. "I hate you."
"You've mentioned that."
"I mean it. I can't stand you. Your control, your arrogance, your—"
I catch movement at the edge of my vision. The hem of her shirt shifts as she gestures, and I see something that makes me pause.
A logo. Faded but visible.
"Who's shirt is that?" I growl.
She stops mid-sentence. "What?"
"The shirt. It's a men's shirt, this brand doesn’t produce women clothing. Who does it belong to?"
Her face goes carefully blank. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"It's just a shirt. From—"
"Adrian." The name is acid on my tongue. "It's his, isn't it?"
She doesn't answer, which is answer enough. And then the vixen shrugs.
Something dark and possessive surges in my chest. "Take it off."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Take it off. Now."
"I'm not taking off my—"
I close the distance between us in two steps, grab the hem of the shirt, and yank hard.
The old fabric tears.
She yelps, stumbling back, but I follow, yanking the shirt over her head before she can stop me. It comes away ripping, leaving her standing there in those ridiculous sweatpants and a black lace bra that does absolutely nothing to hide her.
The air between us goes electric.
She's frozen, arms half-raised, caught between shock and instinct. And I can see everything.
Everything…
Fuck.
The way her skin flushes from her chest up to her face. The delicate lace that's completely transparent, revealing the dusky, rosy peaks beneath that tighten under my gaze—hardening into tight points.
My mouth goes dry.
She's beautiful. Not in the polished, calculated way of the women who usually orbit my world. But raw. Real. Standing there half-undressed and furious and responding to me despite every word coming out of her mouth.
It takes her three full seconds to move. To shakily cross her arms over her chest, breathing hard, but the damage is done. I've seen. And she knows I've seen.
"You—you just—" She's struggling for words, her voice unsteady.
I should step back. Should walk out before this goes somewhere we can't come back from.
But I don't move.
"Never wear another man's clothes in my house." My voice comes out low, rough, barely controlled. "You're mine now, Bianca. Not his. Mine. And I won't be disrespected in my own home."
"This is ridiculous," she whispers, but her voice trembles, and she still hasn't backed away. “We’re not together.”
I step closer—too close—close enough that I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath her arms. Close enough to smell that vanilla scent mixed with something else now. Fear. Arousal.
I reach up slowly, giving her time to move away. She doesn't.
Thank God!
My fingers brush the edge of where her arms cross, just barely grazing the soft skin there. "Your body doesn't seem to follow what your mouth is saying."
Her breath hitches, and I feel the tremor that runs through her.
"Don't," she says, but it comes out weak. Uncertain.
I lean in, my lips close to her ear. "Don't what?
Don't notice how you respond when I'm close?
Don't see the way your body reacts to mine?
" My voice drops lower. "I notice everything, Bianca.
Every blush. Every caught breath. Every time you look at me like you can't decide if you want to hit me or—"
"Stop." She shoves at my chest with one hand, the other still covering herself. "Just stop."
The push is weak, but it's enough to remind me where the line is.
Where I'm standing right on the edge of crossing it.
I step back, putting necessary distance between us, even though everything in me is screaming to close it again and fuck her senseless.
"Get dressed," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "In something that isn't his. And tomorrow, you wear what I tell you to wear."
I turn and walk out before she can respond.
Before I can change my mind.
The door closes behind me, and I stand in the hallway, breathing hard, trying to get my pulse under control. I’m hard as a fucking stone.
That was a mistake.
Touching her. Getting that close. Seeing her like that.
But God, the look in her eyes—defiance and desire—it's going to haunt me for days.
I head for my office, pour myself some water, and drain it in one go.
Bianca Mancini is going to be a problem.
A much bigger problem than I anticipated.
And I have no idea how to fix it without making everything worse.