Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dante
The Corsetti situation took forty minutes to resolve. Forty minutes of listening to Andrea Corsetti whine about territory disputes while I watched the clock and thought about Bianca getting ready at my house.
Wearing the dress I chose.
Playing her part.
Being perfect.
By the time I arrive at my father's estate, it's 6:35. Five minutes late, which is unacceptable, but not catastrophic. The circular driveway is already crowded with luxury cars—Maseratis, Bentleys, a Rolls Royce that belongs to the Bellandi family.
Caterina is here.
Good. Let her watch me introduce someone else.
I'm adjusting my cufflinks when I see Marco's SUV pull up. He gets out first, opens the back door, and—
My jaw locks. I see red.
THAT is not the green dress I ordered her to wear.
Bianca steps out in navy blue. Modest neckline. Fitted but conservative. Beautiful, yes—she'd look stunning in a fucking garbage bag—but it's not what I told her to wear.
It's not what I specifically, explicitly, told her to wear. I’m going to go fucking crazy.
She sees me. Her chin lifts, defiant, and I know immediately this wasn't an accident. This was deliberate.
Marco and Sal flank her as she walks toward me, her heels clicking on the stone driveway. The gold cross at her throat catches the light.
"You're late," I say when she reaches me, my voice deadly quiet.
"So are you."
"I was handling business. You were—" I stop myself, glance at Marco and Sal. "Give us a moment."
They retreat without question.
The second we're alone, I grab her arm and pull her toward the shadows between two cars, away from the entrance where people are streaming in.
"What the hell are you wearing, Bianca?" I keep my voice low, controlled, even though rage is burning through my chest.
"What does it look like? It’s a dress." She tries to pull her arm free. I don't let her.
"Not the one I chose."
She glares at me. "No. Not that one."
Goodness fucking help me.
"I told you—"
"I know what you told me." Her eyes flash. "You told me a lot of things today, Dante. About how you own me. How I'm your responsibility. How I need to do what you say, when you say it, no questions asked. That I should leave a sick boy alone because you said so."
"That's the arrangement—"
"Again, this arrangement doesn't include dressing me up like your personal sex doll and not being a decent human being.
" She yanks her arm again, harder. "I wore a dress.
A beautiful, appropriate, expensive dress.
If that's not good enough for you, then maybe you should've been there to supervise instead of running off to handle business. "
The fury in her voice matches mine. And underneath it, hurt. Real hurt that she's trying to hide behind anger.
I should be focused on the dress. On the disobedience. On what this means for tonight.
But all I can think about is how close she is. How her chest rises and falls with each breath. How her lips are parted slightly, flushed from anger or arousal or both.
Fuck me.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" I move closer, backing her against the car. My hand slides to her waist, fingers digging in hard enough to make a point. "This isn't a fucking game, Bianca. Every detail matters. The dress, the hair, the jewelry—all of it sends a message."
"Then what message does this dress send?" She doesn't back down. "That I have taste? That I'm not some toy you parade around?"
"It sends the message that you don't listen. That you think you know better than me."
She scoffs. "Maybe I do."
I laugh, low and without humor. "You think because you won at poker that you're suddenly my equal? That you get to make decisions?"
"I think because I'm a human being with my own mind, I get to choose what I wear."
"Wrong." I lean in until my lips are at her ear. "You gave up that right when you signed the contract. When you agreed to this. Every choice you make now reflects on me."
“Why do you have to control your girlfriend?” Her breath hitches. "I'm not your doll."
"No." My hand moves from her waist to her hip, possessive.
"You're my girlfriend. My responsibility.
Mine. And when we walk through those doors, you're going to smile and be charming and make them believe this is real.
You're going to make Caterina Bellandi jealous.
You're going to make my father think I've found someone worthy. Are we clear?"
"And if I don't?" Her voice is breathless now, the anger shifting into something else. "What are you going to do, Dante? Punish me? Threaten my mother again?"
"I don't need to threaten your mother." I pull back just enough to look at her. "You'll behave because you're smart enough to know what's at stake. Because despite this little act of defiance, you understand that I'm the only thing standing between her and the street."
The color drains from her face slightly. Good. She needs the reminder.
But then she does something unexpected.
She smiles.
"You know what I think?" She leans closer, her voice dropping to match mine. "I think you're not angry about the dress. I think you actually like it. I think you're angry because I didn't do exactly what you wanted. And you hate that you can't control me the way you control everything else."
The accuracy of that statement hits harder than it should. I clench my jaw so hard I’m half afraid it’ll crack.
"Careful, Bianca." I growl.
"Or what? You'll—"
"Dante!"
The voice cuts through the moment like a knife. I step back immediately, releasing her, and turn to see Luca standing at the entrance.
"Your father is asking for you," he calls. "And he wants to meet her."
Right. Business. The party. The sodding plan.
I straighten my jacket, smooth my expression back into neutrality. When I look at Bianca again, her cheeks are flushed, her breathing unsteady. The attraction between us is a living thing, dangerous and unwanted.
"Fix your lipstick," I tell her quietly. "And when we go in there, you're going to be perfect. Understood?"
She nods, pulling out a small compact from her clutch.
I offer her my arm. After a moment's hesitation and what feels like a full minute glare, she takes it.
"One more thing," I say as we start walking toward the entrance. " I promise you, Bianca—there will be consequences."
"Looking forward to it," she mutters.
The entrance hall is magnificent. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, enough wealth on display to feed a small country. Waiters circulate with champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The crowd is a mix of old money and dangerous men—senators, judges, capos from allied families.
And standing in the center of it all, holding court, is my father.
Giulio Vitale at seventy looks like what he is: a man who was once powerful and can't quite accept that his time has passed. Silver hair perfectly styled. Expensive suit. The kind of commanding presence that comes from decades of getting exactly what he wants.
Next to him, like a viper in designer clothing, is Caterina Bellandi.
She's beautiful in the way a statue is beautiful—cold, perfect, untouchable. Dark hair swept up, revealing a neck dripping with diamonds. A red dress that looks like it was made from people’s blood. She sees me and smiles in a way she thinks is sexy but I find predatory.
"Dante." My father's voice carries across the room. "Finally. Come, introduce us to this mysterious girlfriend we've heard so much about."
Game time.
The crowd parts as we approach. I can feel dozens of eyes on us, assessing, judging, looking for weaknesses but they’ll find none.
Bianca's hand tightens on my arm. I cover it with mine, a gesture that looks affectionate but is really a warning: hold it together, fuck this up and it won’t be pretty.
"Father." I stop in front of him, keeping my expression pleasant. "Happy birthday. This is Bianca Mancini. Bianca, my father Giulio Vitale."
"Mr. Vitale." Bianca extends her hand, her smile warm but not excessive. "Thank you so much for having me on a beautiful day like this. Your home is beautiful."
My father takes her hand, studies her with the sharp gaze that used to make senators squirm. "Mancini. Italian?"
Bianca beams. "Yes, sir. My family is from Napoli originally."
"Hmm, and what do you do, Miss Mancini?"
"I'm a second-grade teacher. P.S. 87 in Queens."
I see it immediately—the slight narrowing of his eyes. The almost imperceptible curl of his lip. A teacher. From Queens. Not exactly the pedigree he was hoping for.
"How... noble," Caterina says, her voice is basically honey-sweet poison. She steps forward, extending her hand to Bianca. "Caterina Bellandi. I'm an old family friend."
"It's lovely to meet you," Bianca says, shaking her hand.
"That's a beautiful dress." Caterina's eyes rake over Bianca's navy-blue gown. "Very... modest. Is that your personal style, or did Dante pick it out for you?"
The question is a trap. If Bianca says I picked it, she looks controlled. If she says it's her style, she looks unsophisticated.
"Oh this? I picked it," Bianca says smoothly. "Dante gave me several options, but I felt this one was the most appropriate for meeting his father. I wanted the focus to be on the conversation, not the clothing."
I stop the surprised twitch of my brow just in time.
Subtle. Smart. I had a say but she chose modesty out of respect.
I'm almost impressed.
"How thoughtful," Caterina says, though her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Though I do find that confidence in one's appearance can be just as respectful. After all, we're celebrating, not attending a funeral."
"Of course." Bianca's smile doesn't waver. "Though I've always believed true confidence comes from knowing you don't need to use your body to hold people's attention. Personality tends to be more memorable than cleavage."
Several people within earshot are listening and I have to bite the insides of my cheek.
Caterina's eyes flash. "I wasn't suggesting—"
"Oh, I know you weren't." Bianca squeezes my arm affectionately, the perfect girlfriend.
"You're far too elegant for that. I was just sharing my personal philosophy.
Growing up with limited means teaches you that character matters more than clothing.
Though obviously"—she gestures to Caterina's dress—"when you have both, that's wonderful. "
Did she just call Caterina shallow while making it sound like a compliment?
Damn.
My father laughs. Actually laughs. "I like her, Dante. She has spine."
"She does," I agree, looking at Bianca with what I hope looks like affection and not the complicated mess of anger, attraction and grudging respect currently churning through me.
Sometimes I have no idea what to do with this female.
"Well," Caterina says, her smile razor-sharp now, "I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to chat later. Dante and I have so much catching up to do. It's been too long since we've had a proper conversation."
"I look forward to it," Bianca says pleasantly.
As we move away, guided toward the bar by my father's gesture, I lean down to murmur in Bianca's ear.
"That was either very brave or very stupid."
"Can't it be both?" she whispers back.
"Caterina is not a normal woman, she is dangerous and you just made an enemy out of her."
"I already had an enemy out of her the moment I walked in here as your girlfriend. I just made sure she knows I'm not afraid of her."
I should be angry. Should be furious that she's taking risks without my explicit say so, making waves, drawing attention.
But instead, I find myself fighting a smile.
Because Bianca Mancini just went toe-to-toe with one of the most dangerous women in the city and won the first round.
And that makes her even more dangerous to me.
Incidentally, I have always wanted all the dangerous things life had to offer.