Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dante
I give her the night.
It's more generous than I should be, but something about the way she clutched that pendant—the fear mixed with defiance—told me pushing tonight would break something I'm not ready to fix yet.
So I go to my office, handle emails, review Rafe's reports on the Corsetti situation, and try not to think about Bianca sleeping in that guest room like she's won.
She hasn't.
The next morning, Patterson calls. Right at nine, his voice shaking as he gives me everything—names, dates, meeting locations, bank account numbers. Every piece of information the Corsettis used to plan that attack.
"Good," I tell him when he's done. "I'll pass this to Matteo. What he does with it is his decision."
"But you said—"
"I said I'd try not to go too much into detail. I will. But Mike?" I lean back in my chair. "Start saying your goodbyes. You have maybe a week."
I hang up before he can beg.
The rest of the day is meetings. Matteo, grim-faced, takes the information and promises to handle it personally. Rafe confirms the Corsettis are scrambling, trying to figure out how we got Patterson to flip. Enzo reports that our territories are secure, no retaliation yet.
By the time I head home, it's after eleven.
The house is dark except for a few lights Maria left on. I loosen my tie as I climb the stairs, already planning tomorrow's schedule. The party is in two days. Bianca needs to be ready.
I push open my bedroom door and stop.
She's not there.
The bed is untouched, perfectly made.
That stubborn—
I head down the hall to the guest room and try the handle. Locked.
Of course, it is.
I could break it down. Could force the issue right now.
But something stops me. Maybe it's the lateness of the hour. Maybe it's knowing I need her cooperative for the party, not terrified.
Or maybe it's just that I'm curious what game she thinks she's playing.
I head back to my room, strip off my jacket and shirt, and lie down on top of the covers.
Tomorrow, she'll learn that defying me has consequences.
Tonight, she can have her small rebellion.
I wake at six-thirty out of habit, shower, dress, and head downstairs for coffee.
Maria's in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. "Good morning, Mr. Vitale. Miss Mancini already left for school."
"What time?"
"Around six. She called for a car service."
Not Tony. A civilian car. Avoiding my drivers.
Smart.
Also defiant.
I drink my coffee standing at the counter, planning. Tonight, when she comes home, we're settling this. No more grace periods. No more allowing her to dictate terms.
The day drags. Every meeting feels longer than it should, every phone call an interruption. By the time evening rolls around, I'm in a mood that has Rafe asking if I need to hit something.
"I'm fine," I tell him.
"You're wound tighter than I've seen you in months." He leans against my office doorframe. "This about the girl?"
"It's about maintaining control of my own household."
"So yes, it's about the girl." He grins. "What'd she do? Refuse to wear one of those dresses you bought?"
"She's sleeping in the guest room."
His grin widens. "And that bothers you because...?"
"Because appearances matter. Because my staff is already talking. Because she agreed to follow my instructions and she's blatantly ignoring them."
"Uh-huh. Sure. That's why you've been checking your watch every ten minutes waiting for her to get home."
"Get out of my office, Rafe."
He leaves, still grinning, and I resist the urge to throw something at his head.
At six-forty-five, I get the alert that Tony's brought her back from school. I give her twenty minutes to settle in, then head upstairs.
The guest room door is closed. I don't knock.
She's standing by the window, still in her work clothes—modest blouse, knee-length skirt—looking out at the gardens. She doesn't turn when I enter.
"We had an agreement," I say.
"You had a demand. I had no choice but to listen."
"And yet here you are. In the wrong room. Again."
"It's not the wrong room." She finally turns. "It's my room. The one I chose."
"The one I told you not to use."
"The one I'm using anyway." She crosses her arms. "What are you going to do about it, Dante? Drag me by my hair? Lock me in? Chain me to your bed?"
The image that creates is... distracting.
I push it aside. "I gave you the last two nights as a courtesy. Tonight, you sleep where I tell you to sleep."
"Or what?"
"Or you learn what happens when you defy me."
She laughs, sharp and bitter. "You've already taken everything. My freedom. My choices. My mother's health is in your hands. What else can you possibly—"
I cross the room in three strides, grab her wrists, and pin them above her head against the wall.
Her breath catches.
"I don't need your consent to make the world believe you belong to me," I say, my voice low. "I don't need your permission to control every aspect of this arrangement. And I sure as hell don't need you to like me to get what I want."
"Then what do you need?" She's breathing hard, her pulse visible in her throat.
"Obedience." I lean in closer. "You agreed to follow my instructions. I'm instructing you to sleep in my room. It's not complicated."
"It is when you won't tell me why it matters so much!"
"Because what's mine doesn't hide from me." The words come out rougher than I intended. "Because if I allow you to dictate terms on this, you'll push on everything else. Because I need to know you understand the power dynamic here."
"I understand it perfectly." Her eyes flash. "You're the monster. I'm the victim. Very clear."
"If that's what you want to believe." I release one wrist, trace my finger along her jaw. "But we both know it's more complicated than that."
"It's not—"
"You want me." I state it as fact. "You hate that you want me, but you do. And that scares you more than anything else I could do to you."
"You're delusional—"
"Am I?" My hand slides to her throat, feeling her pulse race. "Should I test that theory?"
She doesn't answer. Just stares at me with those hazel eyes that are equal parts fury and something she won't name.
"Here's what's going to happen," I say. "You're going to stop fighting me on this. You're going to sleep in my room like I've told you to. And if you continue to defy me, there will be consequences." I release her other wrist, step back. "Get your things. Move them to my room. Now."
"No."
The word hangs in the air.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no." She straightens, rubbing her wrists where I held them. "You can threaten me all you want, Dante. You can intimidate and manipulate and use my mother against me. But I'm not moving into your room. Not tonight. Not ever."
Something in me snaps.
"Fine." I grab her arm, not roughly but firmly. "Then I guess you need to learn what happens when you push me too far."
"What are you—"
I pull her toward the bed, sit down on the edge, and before she can process what's happening, I pull her across my lap.
"Dante!" She struggles immediately, trying to push herself up. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Teaching you a lesson about obedience." I pin her wrists at the small of her back with one hand, holding her in place. "You want to act like a defiant child? Fine. You'll be punished like one."
"You can't be serious—"
"I'm always serious." I rest my other hand on the curve of her hip, feeling her tense beneath my touch. "You were warned. Multiple times. And you ignored every single one."
"This is insane—"
"This is necessary." I slide my hand down to the hem of her modest skirt. "Count them. We'll start with five. If you lose count, we start over."
"I'm not going to—"
The first strike lands firm across her backside, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
She gasps, more from shock than pain.
"I said count."
Silence. Defiant silence.
"That's one," I say for her. "Since you seem to have forgotten how."
The second strike is slightly harder. Her body jerks against my lap, and I feel her breathing change.
"Two," she grits out finally.
"Good girl."
The third strike makes her inhale sharply, and that's when I notice.
Her skirt has ridden up slightly from her struggles, revealing the edge of her underwear.
Black lace. Completely see-through. The kind that hides absolutely nothing.
The contrast is striking—modest, proper schoolteacher on the outside, this underneath.
"Three," she whispers, her voice strained.
I let my hand linger this time, feeling the heat through the thin fabric of her skirt. "Interesting."
"What—"
"Your clothes." I trace the edge where modest meets revealing. "So proper up here. But underneath..."
I push her skirt up higher, revealing more of that black lace, and her entire body goes rigid.
"Don't—"
"Don't what? Point out that you wear the exact kind of underwear you claim to hate?" The fourth strike lands directly on the lace, and the sound she makes is nothing like pain.
It's breathy. Surprised. Something else entirely.
"Four," she manages, but her voice has changed.
So has her breathing.
I smooth my hand over where I just struck, feeling the heat, feeling the way she's trembling now. Not from fear.
From arousal.
"Last one," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
The fifth strike is measured, controlled, and she arches slightly into it before she can stop herself.
"Five." It comes out barely audible.
I should let her up now. Should send her to my room with her lesson learned.
But my hand stays where it is, resting on heated skin barely covered by that ridiculous lace, and I can feel her pulse racing everywhere we're touching.
"You're not scared," I observe quietly.
"I hate you."
"That's not what I said." I trace the edge of the lace, feeling her shiver. "Your body's telling me something very different than your mouth is."
"Stop—"
"Stop what? This?" I slide my fingers beneath the lace, just barely, testing.
She makes a sound that goes straight through me.
"You want this," I say, more to myself than to her. "You've wanted this since I tore that shirt off you."
"No—"
"Yes." I push my finger further, finding heat and—
Christ.
We both curse at the same time.
Her body clenches around my finger, and the sound she makes is desperate, needy, nothing like defiance anymore.
And I—
I freeze.
What the hell am I doing?
This isn't the plan. This isn't maintaining control. This is losing it.
I withdraw my hand immediately, grip her hips, and set her on her feet so fast she stumbles.
"Get out," I say, my voice rough.
She stares at me, face flushed, breathing hard, looking as shaken as I feel.
"What?"
"Get out of my sight. Now." I stand, needing distance, needing to think. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
"You just—you can't just—"
"I can do whatever I want. That's the point." But even I can hear how unconvincing it sounds. "Get your things. Move them to my room. If you're not there in ten minutes, I'll come back and finish what I started."
It's a bluff. We both know it.
Because if I touch her again right now, I won't stop at a finger.
She sees it in my face—the barely leashed control, the want I can't quite hide—and something shifts in her expression.
"Get. Out."
"Make me."
The challenge hangs between us, dangerous and tempting.
I could. I absolutely could.
But I won't.
"Ten minutes," I repeat, heading for the door. "If you're not in my room, I'm dragging you there myself."
I leave before she can respond or I do something stupid like kiss her or finish what I started or admit that she's gotten under my skin in a way I didn't anticipate.
In my office, I pour myself a water with shaking hands and down it in one go.
What the hell was that?
I've spanked women before. Punishment, play, whatever the situation called for. Always controlled.
But this?
This was neither.
This was me losing my grip on the situation. On myself.
Bianca Mancini is becoming a problem.
A problem I have no idea how to solve.