Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Dante
The marble hallway leading to my father's office stretches ahead like a goddamn gauntlet.
My mind won't stay put. Won't focus on the meeting ahead or what he wants or any of the strategic planning I should be doing right now.
Instead, it keeps circling back to last night.
To Bianca in that pool, water streaming down her body. The way she looked at me—half furious, half wanting. The sounds she made when I touched her. The way she tasted. The way she felt wrapped around me, taking everything I gave her and demanding more.
Heat spreads through my chest, lower. My pants get tight.
Not now. Not fucking here.
I stop walking, press my palm against the cool wall. Try to breathe through it. Think about quarterly reports. Territory disputes. Anything except the memory of her nails digging into my shoulders while she—
Nope. That's worse.
My body doesn't care that I'm about to face my father.
Doesn't care that getting hard in the hallway outside his office is the last thing I need right now.
It just remembers the way she clenched around me.
The broken sound she made when she came.
How many times I made her fall apart before we finally collapsed, spent and tangled together.
I adjust myself through my pants. It doesn't help.
Five more minutes. Just need five minutes for this to settle before I walk in there.
I close my eyes, try to force the images away. But they won't leave.
My phone buzzes. A text from my father: Don't be late.
Right. Business. Work. Things that actually matter.
I straighten my jacket, roll my shoulders back. Force my breathing to even out. Count backwards from twenty in Italian like I used to do before depositions when I still thought I'd follow my father into politics.
By fifteen, my body's starting to cooperate.
By ten, I can almost think straight again.
By five, the memories have faded enough that I can walk without broadcasting what I was just thinking about.
I reach my father's door, knock twice.
"Enter."
Here we go.
My father's office smells like cigar smoke and old money. The kind of smell that's supposed to make you feel important, like you've arrived at the top of some invisible ladder everyone's been climbing their whole lives.
It just makes me want to leave. Or puke. Or puke while leaving.
"Sit." My father doesn't look up from whatever document he's pretending to read. His desk is massive—all dark wood and brass fixtures, positioned so the light from the window hits whoever sits across from him right in the eyes.
Control. Always control with him.
I sit anyway, because refusing would drag this out longer.
And all I want to do is get this over with and get back to Bianca.
He sets down the paper with deliberate slowness, folds his hands, and finally looks at me. His eyes are the same blue as mine, but colder. Flatter. Like something died in him years ago.
"We need to discuss your... situation."
"My situation." I lean back, one ankle crossed over my knee. Relaxed. Bored, even. "You mean my girlfriend?"
"I mean that schoolteacher you've been parading around." He picks up a crystal tumbler, swirls the amber liquid inside. Scotch. Expensive. He drinks it like water. "Bianca Mancini. Queens. Second-grade teacher. No family connections. No money. No influence."
"She has me."
"That's the problem." He takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "You're a Vitale, Dante. Our name used to mean something before my... difficulties. We're rebuilding. Reclaiming our position. And you're wasting it on a woman who brings nothing to the table."
The way he says difficulties—like his corruption scandal that destroyed our family's reputation was just a minor inconvenience. Like Mom didn't drink herself to death trying to cope with the shame.
I keep my face blank. "She brings herself."
"Herself." He laughs, short and sharp. "What does that get you? What doors does that open? What alliances does that create?"
"I don't need more alliances."
"Everyone needs more alliances. Especially now." He sets down his glass, leans forward. "The Bellandis control shipping from here to Miami. Their political connections run deeper than ours ever did. Caterina is educated, sophisticated, understands our world. She's the perfect match."
"For someone else."
"For you." His voice hardens. "She's the only worthy bride for a man in your position. A woman who can stand beside you, not behind you looking lost."
My jaw locks. "Bianca isn't lost."
"No? She looked terrified at the party. Out of place. Like a child playing dress-up in her mother's closet." He picks up his glass again, studies the light through it. "People noticed, Dante. They're already talking. Wondering why you'd choose her over Caterina."
"Maybe I just want her."
"Want?" He snorts. "You're an adult. Want is for teenagers. You should be thinking about legacy. About building something that lasts beyond a few months of decent sex."
The disrespect in his voice—the casual dismissal of Bianca like she's nothing, nobody—makes heat crawl up my spine.
"She won't cause a scandal," I say, keeping my tone even. "Which should be your only concern, considering your track record."
His eyes flash. "Watch yourself."
"I'm just stating facts. You want me to marry someone who strengthens the family name. Fine. Bianca doesn't weaken it. She's clean. No criminal record. No scandals. No enemies. She's exactly what we need right now—someone nobody can use against us."
"She's also someone who won't survive this world." He stands, walks to the window overlooking his manicured gardens. "I've been watching her, Dante. Asking questions. And something seems... off."
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral. "Off how?"
"I don't know yet. But I will." He turns back to face me. "That's the other reason Caterina is better. I know her family. I know exactly what I'm getting. Your little teacher? She's a mystery. And mysteries in our world usually mean trouble."
"Then it's a good thing she's my problem, not yours."
"Everything you do is my problem." He moves back to his desk, braces his hands on the surface. "You're my son. My legacy. And I won't watch you throw away everything I've built for some nobody who—"
"You haven't built anything." The words come out flat. Cold. "You tore everything down. Mom. Our reputation. The respect our name used to carry. I'm the one rebuilding. Me. And I'll do it my way."
Silence stretches between us, thick and toxic.
"Get out," he says finally. "Before I say something we'll both regret."
I stand, straighten my jacket. "Already regretting this conversation."
"Dante." His voice stops me at the door. "I will find out what's wrong with that girl. And when I do, you'll see I was right all along."
I don't respond. Just walk out, closing the door behind me with careful control when what I want to do is slam it hard enough to crack the frame.
The hallway outside his office is empty. My hands curl into fists at my sides as I walk toward the exit, my father's words echoing in my head.
He's wrong. About all of it.
Bianca is stronger than he thinks. Smarter. She's survived things that would break most people—losing her father, raising herself, watching her mother die slowly. She doesn't need to be from the right family or have the right connections.
She just needs to be hers.
And mine.
The thought hits me as I reach my car. Not just the fake arrangement. Not just the contract we signed or the leverage I'm holding.
Actually mine.
I pull out my phone, scroll to Marco's number.
He answers on the first ring. "Boss?"
"I need you to do something. Discreetly."
"Always."
"Get me an engagement ring. Something that'll make every woman at the Bellandi gala next week insane with jealousy. Price doesn't matter. Quality does."
A pause. "An engagement ring."
"You heard me."
"For... Miss Mancini?"
"Who else would it be for?"
Another pause, longer this time. "Boss, are you sure about this? I mean, the arrangement was temporary. Using her to avoid Caterina. This seems—"
"I don't pay you to question my decisions." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. "I pay you to follow orders. So unless you want to explain to me why you think you know better—"
"No, sir. I'll handle it."
"Good. And Marco?" I unlock my car, slide into the driver's seat. "Put a tracking device inside. Small. Undetectable. Something that'll last."
"A tracker. In the engagement ring."
"Problem?"
"No, sir. Just... making sure I understand."
"You understand fine. I want it done by tomorrow."
"Understood."
I hang up, start the engine. My hands are steadier now. Purpose always steadies me.
The Bellandi gala is in five days. Caterina's family is hosting, which means she'll be there looking perfect. Expecting me to come crawling back after our conversation at Dad's party. Expecting me to admit she was right.
Instead, I'm going to walk in with Bianca on my arm and a ring on her finger.
I'm going to make it official. Public. Permanent.
Not because the arrangement requires it. Not because I need to maintain appearances.
Because Giulio said she's not worthy, and something in me decided right then that I'd prove him wrong. That I'd take this woman he dismisses so casually and make her untouchable.
That I'd give her my name, my protection, my ring.
Mine.
The tracker is just... insurance. In case things go sideways. In case she runs. In case the secrets she's obviously hiding come back to bite us both.
I need to know where she is. Always.
For her safety.
I pull through the gates of my estate, park in front of the house. Through the windows, I can see Maria moving around in the kitchen. Normal. Routine. Like my entire world didn't shift on its axis last night in that pool.
Like I didn't just decide to marry a woman for real instead of pretending.
The scary part isn't the decision itself.
It's how right it feels.