Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bianca
"You need to be home by two," Dante says over breakfast, not looking up from his phone. "Hair and makeup arrive at three. We leave at six-thirty sharp."
"I have school until three-thirty."
"Then you leave early."
"I can't just leave early. I have students—"
"Bianca." He sets down his phone, giving me his full attention. "This party is critical. You need to look perfect, act perfect, be perfect. That requires preparation time. So yes, you're leaving early."
"What if I have something important—"
"Nothing is more important than this." His voice hardens. "Two o’clock. Home. No excuses."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he can't just dictate my schedule like I'm one of his employees. But the look on his face tells me this isn't a negotiation.
"Fine," I bite out. "Two."
"Good." He stands, straightens his jacket. "I'll have Tony pick you up. Don't make him wait."
He leaves before I can respond.
At school, the morning flies by. Reading groups, math lessons, a minor crisis when someone spills paint on the new carpet. By lunch, I've almost forgotten about Dante's ultimatum.
Until Alex approaches my desk, his face pale and drawn.
"Miss Mancini?" His voice wavers. "I don't feel good."
Before I can respond, he sways on his feet. I catch him just as his knees buckle.
"Whoa, buddy. Okay, let's sit you down." I guide him to a chair, pressing my hand to his forehead. He's burning up.
I check my watch. 1:45 PM.
I have fifteen minutes.
"Alex, does your stomach hurt? Your head?"
"Both." He's shaking now, his skin clammy. "And I'm really dizzy."
This isn't something I can ignore. I pull out my phone, call the school nurse.
"I need you in Room 204. Student with fever, dizziness, possibly vomiting."
I keep Alex steady and try to cover my worry when nurse Patterson arrives within a few minutes. She takes one look at Alex and shakes her head. "We need to contact his mother immediately. He needs to go home or to urgent care."
I try calling Alex's mom. Straight to voicemail. I try again. Nothing.
"She works at the warehouse," I tell nurse Patterson. "Sometimes she can't have her phone on her."
"Then we keep trying. And someone needs to stay with him until we reach her." She looks at me meaningfully as we both keep Alex and move him to her room.
I have no idea how much time passes. Thirty minutes? Maybe even forty-five.
Alex is lying on the nurse's cot, shivering under a blanket, looking so small and scared. His mother's phone goes to voicemail six more times and I’m out of my mind with worry because I can imagine what he feels like—wanting his mother and feeling sick.
I can't leave him. He's seven years old, sick, and terrified. I was him once—alone, scared, needing an adult who would stay.
By the time his mother finally calls back, frantic and apologetic, promising she's on her way, it's 2:47.
I'm forty-seven minutes late, but honestly, I couldn’t care less after the scare I had.
My phone has six missed calls from Tony. Three texts from Dante, each one progressively shorter and more furious.
2:15 PM: Where are you?
2:30 PM: Tony says you're still at school.
2:45 PM: You have five minutes to get in that car.
Shit.
I grab my bag, say goodbye to Alex and his newly arrived mother, and run to the parking lot.
Tony's waiting, his expression carefully neutral. "Miss Mancini."
"I know. I'm sorry. It couldn't be helped—"
"You should tell Mr. Vitale that." He opens the door. "Not me."
The drive back feels like going to my execution.
I try to text Dante an explanation, but my hands are shaking too badly to type coherently. Delete. Retype. Delete again.
Finally, I just send: I'm sorry. There was an emergency with a student.
No response.
We pull through the gates at 3:15. An hour and fifteen minutes late.
The hair and makeup people are already there—I can see their van in the driveway. Which means Dante's been waiting. Probably seething.
I climb out of the car and head for the door, trying to prepare an explanation that won't sound like an excuse. I don't make it two steps inside before a hand wraps around my arm and slams me against the wall.
Dante.
His face is a mask of cold fury, his body pinning me in place, one hand flat against the wall beside my head.
"You're late," he says, his voice dangerously soft.
"I know. I'm sorry—"
"An hour and fifteen minutes late." His other hand comes up, fingers closing around my throat. Not choking. Just holding. "After I explicitly told you to be here at two."
"There was a student who needed—"
"I don't care." The words are clipped. Precise. "I told you what time to be here. You agreed. And then you deliberately defied me."
"It wasn't deliberate! Alex, a student who has a difficult situation at home, was sick and his mother wasn't answering and I couldn't just leave him—"
"Yes, you could have." His grip tightens slightly. "You chose not to. You chose your student over my explicit instructions. Do you understand what that looks like? What message that sends?"
"That I have priorities beyond being my boyfriend’s perfect accessory?"
His eyes flash. "That you don't take this seriously. That you think you can disregard my orders whenever you feel like it."
"They're not orders. I'm not your soldier—"
"No. You're mine in every way that matters. And what's mine obeys." He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Do you remember what I told you about disobedience?"
My heart is hammering. "Dante—"
"Answer the question. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"Then you know what happens next."
"I'm not going to apologize for helping a seven-year-old—"
"I'm not asking you to apologize for helping him. I'm telling you that defying me has consequences." His hand slides from my throat to my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Whether you think those consequences are fair is irrelevant."
"So what? You're going to punish me? Right now?" I shove at his chest, but he doesn't budge. "The hair people are waiting. We have a party in three hours. What exactly is your plan?"
"My plan," he says, his voice dropping even lower, "is to remind you exactly who's in control here."
"You're always in control. That's the problem."
"Is it?" His hand drops to my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. "Because from where I'm standing, you're the one making choices. You're the one deciding when to obey and when to defy. That's not me having control. That's you testing boundaries."
"Maybe I'm tired of boundaries."
"Maybe you want to be punished." His eyes search mine. "Is that it, Bianca? Do you want me to bend you over my knee again? Make you count while I remind you what happens when you disobey?"
Heat floods through me despite my anger. "No."
"Liar." His hand slides lower, to my hip, fingers digging in. "Your body gives you away every time."
"Stop—"
"Stop what? Pointing out that you're turned on right now? That despite your anger, despite your defiance, you want this?" He presses against me, and I can feel exactly how much he wants it too, how achingly hard he is. "Should I stop touching you? Stop reminding you that you're mine?"
"I'm not yours—"
"Yes, you are." His hand moves to my breast, rough and possessive over my clothes. "Every inch of you. Whether you admit it or not."
I should push him away. Should slap him. Should do anything except stand here letting him touch me while heat pools between my legs and my breathing goes ragged.
"Dante—"
His phone rings.
He ignores it.
But then the damned thing rings again.
"Answer it," I manage.
"No."
Third ring. Fourth.
He pulls it out with a vicious curse, glances at the screen. "Fuck."
"What?"
"It's Matteo." He answers, stepping back but keeping one hand on my waist. "This better be important."
I can't hear what Matteo says, but I watch Dante's expression shift from anger to something colder.
"When?" Pause. "How many?" Another pause. "I'll be there in twenty."
He hangs up.
"There's a problem," he says, his voice completely changed. Professional now. Detached. "The Corsetti situation. I have to go handle it."
"Now?"
"Now." He releases me, steps back. "You have two hours to get ready. Hair, makeup, the dress I picked—all of it. Tony will drive you to my father's house. I'll meet you there."
"You're not coming with me?"
"I don't have a choice." He's already moving toward the door. "Marco and Sal will accompany you. They'll stay close the whole time. If anything feels wrong, anything at all, you tell them immediately."
"Dante—"
"Be punctual, Bianca. I'll meet you at six-thirty sharp in front of the house.
" He pauses at the door. "And wear the damn dress I chose.
No arguments. No substitutions. If you show up in something else, there will be consequences.
" He suddenly walks back to me, and his hand comes up to grip my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
"Have you forgotten why you're here? Why you agreed to this? "
I haven't. God, I haven't forgotten for a single second.
"What happens to disobedient girls, Bianca?"
His thumb brushes my lower lip. "Do you need another reminder?"
My breath catches. Because I remember. Remember his hand between my legs. Remember how I came apart for him even though I hated myself for it.
"No," I manage.
"No what?"
"No, I don't need a reminder."
"Good." But he doesn't move.
Instead, his other hand slides down my side, possessive and rough. "Because if you ever prioritize anything over your obligations to me. You know exactly what you’re losing."
The threat hangs between us.
"We clear?" he asks.
"Crystal," I bite out.
"Good." He's gone before I can say anything else.
And I'm left standing against the wall, still shaking, still flushed, trying to process what just happened.
He touched me. Pinned me. Threatened me. Made me want him despite every logical reason not to. And now I have to get dressed up and play the perfect girlfriend at a party full of people who could destroy me with a word.
A woman appears in the doorway—mid-thirties, carrying a massive makeup case. "Miss Mancini? I'm Sophia. We should get started. We're running behind."
No kidding.
I follow her upstairs, my body still humming with adrenaline and unwanted arousal.
In the bedroom, the dress is laid out on the bed. The green one Dante chose. Elegant but sexy, too sexy.
The kind of dress that screams ‘Look at me. Look at what he owns’.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Then I go to the closet and pull out something else entirely.
A dress Maria bought me last week when I complained about having nothing appropriate for "events." Navy blue, elegant, fitted but not obscene. Beautiful but modest.
The kind of dress I'd choose for myself.
Dante said to wear what he picked.
But Dante isn't here. And is making me go without him.
And I'm tired of being told what to wear, where to be, how to act.
If he wants obedience, he can earn it.
Not demand it.
Sophia does my hair—soft waves, elegant but not overdone. Makeup that enhances instead of transforms. By the time she's finished, I look like an elevated version of myself.
Not Dante's creation. Just... me.
At 6:20, Marco and Sal appear at my door.
"Ready, Miss Mancini?" Marco asks.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
In the car, I try not to think about what Dante's face will look like when he sees me.
Try not to think about the consequences he promised.
Try not to think about the fact that I'm walking into a room full of dangerous people wearing the wrong dress and probably about to make everything worse.
But as we pull up to Giulio Vitale's estate—easily twice the size of Dante's, all old money and refined taste—I square my shoulders and lift my chin.
If I'm going to play this part, I'm doing it my way.
Even if it costs me.