Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Dante
The Bellandi estate makes my father's place look like a cottage.
Marble everywhere. Gold leaf on the ceilings. Crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most people's houses. It's obscene. Excessive. Exactly the kind of display that screams we have money and we need you to know it.
I hate it.
But I'm here anyway, because turning down the invitation would've been an insult. And because Caterina's watching from across the room with those cold eyes, waiting for me to fail.
Bianca stands beside me in the red dress I picked out. The one from the party—the one she refused to wear that night. I had it sent over again this morning with a note: Wear this. No arguments.
She did.
And she looks... Christ, she looks incredible. The fabric clings to every curve, the slit showing just enough thigh to make my jaw tight. Her hair's down, falling in waves over her bare shoulders. Simple jewelry—just the gold cross she always wears and small earrings.
She doesn't need anything else.
Every man in this room has looked at her at least once. Some more than once. And each time, I feel that possessive heat crawl up my spine, the urge to put my hands on her so they all know exactly who she belongs to.
"Champagne?" A server appears with a tray.
"No," I say at the same time Bianca reaches for a glass.
She freezes, looks at me. "Seriously?"
"You don't drink."
"I had champagne at your father's party."
"And we discussed how that went." I wave the server away. "Water."
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't argue. Just turns away, scanning the room like she's looking for an escape route.
"Stay close," I tell her. "Don't wander off."
She opens her mouth—probably to tell me exactly where I can shove my orders—but Massimo Bellandi appears before she can.
"Dante." He extends his hand. Mid-sixties, silver hair, expensive suit. The kind of man who smiles while he's planning your funeral. "So glad you could make it. And this must be the famous Bianca."
I shake his hand, keep my grip firm. "Massimo. Thank you for the invitation."
"Of course, of course." His eyes slide to Bianca, assessing. "My daughter speaks very highly of you."
"Does she." I don't make it a question.
"She does. In fact, she's been hoping to have a word with you tonight. Business matters." He smiles. "But I'll let her tell you herself. Please, enjoy the party. The auction starts in an hour."
He drifts away, already moving to the next group of guests.
"He's terrifying," Bianca says quietly.
"He's nothing." I guide her toward the bar with a hand on her lower back. "Just a man trying to stay relevant."
"By throwing parties that cost an amount I can’t casually mention?”
"By reminding everyone he still has power." I signal the bartender. "Two waters."
She makes a face but doesn't protest this time. Just takes the glass when it arrives and sips like it's the most boring thing in the world.
"I need to make some rounds," I tell her. "Stay here. Don't talk to anyone I haven't introduced you to."
"You're not serious."
"Completely serious." I lean in, lower my voice. "Half the men here would use you to get to me. The other half would just use you. So stay. Here."
I leave before she can argue, moving through the crowd with practiced ease. Handshakes. Small talk. The usual performance everyone in this world does at these things.
But I keep one eye on Bianca the whole time.
She's good for about ten minutes. Stands by the bar, drinks her water, looks bored but composed.
Then some motherfucking asshole in a navy suit approaches her.
Young. Maybe late twenties. Probably one of the Bellandi cousins or associates. The kind of guy who thinks his family name gives him permission to talk to anyone.
He says something. Bianca smiles—polite, not warm.
He says something else. Her smile widens.
Then she laughs.
Actually laughs, throwing her head back slightly, one hand coming up to touch his arm.
What the fuck?
Heat explodes in my chest.
I'm moving before I think about it, cutting through the crowd with single-minded focus. The conversation I was having—some senator droning on about infrastructure—dies mid-sentence as I walk away.
I reach them in ten seconds.
"Dante!" Bianca's smile is bright. Too bright. "This is Nate—"
"I don't care who he is." I grab her arm, not rough but firm enough that she knows I'm done playing. "We're leaving."
"We just got here—"
"Now."
I pull her toward the hallway leading to the back of the estate. She stumbles slightly in her heels but keeps up, probably because making a scene would be worse than following me.
The hallway is empty. Quiet. All marble and expensive art nobody actually looks at.
I shove her against the wall.
Not hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to make a point.
"What the hell was that?" My voice comes out low and barely controlled.
"What was what?" She glares up at me. "Having a conversation?"
"Laughing. Touching him. Making me look like an idiot while you flirt with some random asshole—"
"I wasn't flirting!" She shoves at my chest. "I was being polite! He asked about my job and I answered like a normal person having a normal conversation—"
"There's nothing normal about this." I cage her in with my arms, palms flat against the wall on either side of her head. "You're here with me. As my girlfriend. And you're out there acting like you're available,. You like him?”
I’m going to fucking murder that asshole.
"Maybe I like men who don't treat me like property."
The words land like a slap.
I lean in closer, until my lips nearly brush hers. Until I can see the pulse hammering in her throat. "You are my property. Whether you like it or not."
"You're—"
I kiss her.
Hard. Claiming. All teeth and frustration and the need to prove something I can't even name right now.
She makes a sound—surprise or protest or maybe want—and then she's kissing me back just as hard. Her hands fist in my jacket, pulling me closer instead of pushing away.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"We're going back in there," I say, my voice rough. "And you're going to stay by my side. And if you so much as smile at another man—"
"What?" She tilts her chin up. Defiant. "What are you going to do?"
"Remind you exactly who you belong to."
I take her hand, pull her back toward the ballroom. The music has shifted—something slow and elegant that rich people think is sophisticated.
"You know what? I need a little air," she says as we almost reach the dancefloor.
“Air you say…" I release her, look at her flustered cheeks and take her hand. "Come with me."
I lead her through a side door that leads to the service corridors. These old estates all have them—ways for staff to move around without being seen by guests.
I try three doors before I find an empty room. Storage, maybe. Or a sitting room nobody uses. There's a couch, some boxes, dim lighting from a single lamp.
Good enough.
I pull her inside, lock the door.
Her eyes are wide, a mix of fake shock and real excitement. She wanted this. She’d been pushing me, testing me, seeing how many buttons she could press before I short-circuited.
“What are you—” she starts, that rich, fuckable voice of hers laced with a protest I know she doesn’t mean.
I don’t answer with words. I spin her around, my hands on her hips, backing her up until the backs of her knees hit the couch. “Sit.”
“Excuse me?” She tries for indignant, but her breath is already coming faster. I can see the pulse hammering in her throat.
"Sit. The. Fuck. Down."
She sinks onto the couch, not because I told her to, but because she’s desperate to see what I’ll do next. Her dress is a dark red, and it pools around her thighs as she settles.
I drop to my knees on the floor between her legs, the hardwood biting into my skin. A good pain. A focused pain.
I push the hem of her dress up, revealing her thighs, the black lace of her underwear.
She makes a small sound, a gasp that gets caught in her throat.
I hook my fingers in the sides of her panties and peel them down her legs, slowly, letting the lace drag against her skin.
She lifts her hips to help me, a tiny, telling betrayal of her supposed reluctance.
I push the underwear in my pocket and look up at her. Her cheeks are flushed. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” My voice is low, rough. “To push me until I fucking snapped?”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did.” I cut her off, my hand sliding up her inner thigh, feeling the heat of her skin, the muscle tense underneath. “You wanted to see how far you could go before I reminded you exactly what the fuck this is.”
“And what is this?” she breathes, her chin tilted up in defiance.
I don’t answer. I just lean forward and press my mouth to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. I kiss her there, my lips soft at first, just a whisper of contact. She gasps, one hand flying to her mouth.
Then I open my mouth, sucking lightly, tasting the faint salt of her skin, knowing I’m leaving a mark. She jolts, and her other hand finds their way into my hair, not to push me away, but to fist it, to hold on.
I’m going to ruin that pretty composure of yours, Bianca. I’m going to lick it all away.
I move my mouth higher, nuzzling through the soft thatch of dark hair until I find her.
I don’t dive in. I tease. I use the flat of my tongue to lick a slow, broad stripe from her entrance all the way up to the hard little nub at the top.
She cries out, a sharp, choked sound, and her hips jerk off the couch.
Fuck, she tastes good. Like everything I’ve ever been hungry for.
I do it again, slower this time, savoring her.
Then I focus on her clit, circling it with the very tip of my tongue.
I keep my pace agonizingly slow, deliberate, making her squirm and whine beneath me.
Her grip on my hair tightens, pulling almost to the point of pain. I love it. I want her to lose control.