Chapter Twenty-seven
Lorenzo
Why the fuck is she wearing that?
I swear, I can feel my blood fucking boiling just looking at her. That dress, my dress, because fuck if I let anyone else admire it, is hugging every goddamn curve, making her look like some forbidden fantasy. Like something no man deserves to touch.
And yet, every single bastard in this room is looking at her like they fucking can.
I grip my whiskey glass tighter, the expensive crystal creaking under the force of my hold.
If one more man lays his eyes on her, I might actually carve them out.
Smash their fucking heads into the floor and turn this elegant party into a massacre.
Just to make a point. Just to remind them who the fuck she belongs to.
Not that she knows it yet.
Her gaze flicks to mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
Brown eyes, wide, unreadable, scanning me, searching for, what? Recognition? A reaction?
Then her gaze shifts.
To Ashley.
I smirk.
Is that jealousy I see, baby?
I don’t even think. My grip tightens around Ashley’s waist, pulling her closer, making sure Serena sees it, making sure she knows. Ashley presses against me like she was fucking made to fit into my side, but she’s not the one I want to be touching. Not the one I need to be touching.
Serena’s eyes darken.
Oh, fuck, that look. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under by now. My little angel is pissed. Pissed.
I wink at her, just to piss her off more.
Her expression twists, lips parting slightly before she scoffs, rolling her eyes so hard I think she might just throw her whole damn head back.
And then she turns.
Walks away.
Straight to the bar with her little friend.
She thinks she can just walk away from me?
Cute.
This discussion is boring the absolute shit out of me. Lockwood has been running his mouth for the last ten minutes, spewing bullshit about what a great gentleman I am, how my father would be so proud of the man I’ve become. If only he fucking knew.
I nod, let out a polite hum, and pretend to give a fuck. I don’t. I need to get the fuck out of here.
Ashley, on the other hand, is eating up every second of this event, practically glowing with excitement just from standing next to me. I don’t blame her. Any woman in this building would kill to be where she is, clinging to my arm like she belongs there.
She doesn’t.
I scan the room, looking for an escape, and my eyes land on Kirill, Andres, and Lev in the corner, looking as bored as I feel. Perfect. Without another word, I leave Lockwood mid-sentence and head straight for them.
"Fuck, this shit is annoying me," I say as I knock back the rest of my whiskey, the burn doing absolutely nothing to take the edge off. ‘Never send me to do diplomatic bullshit again.’ I shoot Kirill a glare, and he just laughs, the I told you so written all over his face.
"Do you mind if I fuck your date?" Lev asks, far too casually for my liking.
I cut him a sharp look.
"She’s not my date. She’s my employee. And no, you cannot fuck my employee."
I don’t give a fuck who Ashley sleeps with, but for two years, she’s been the one at my side at these events, and I’m not about to have my business partners passing her around like she’s a party favor. It looks bad.
Lev sighs like I just ruined his entire night. ‘Why? Are you fucking her?’
"Fuck no," I scoff, shaking my head. "Go fuck Andres’ date."
Andres glares at me.
"Thanks, but no," he says, bored.
Lev just grins, leaning back in his chair like he’s debating his next move.
Kirill watches us, amusement flickering in his eyes. He never talks about women, not with us, not with anyone. That man would rather rip someone’s throat out than disrespect his wife. If he even thinks about another woman, no one fucking knows.
We shift the conversation to business, to actual things that matter.
Kirill updates us on those pricks who tried to attack his younger daughter, everything is already being handled, of course.
The two fuckers who made the mistake of breathing in her direction will soon find themselves locked in Lev’s basement, wishing they’d never been born.
I nod. Good.
We move on to discussing the next shipment. Bratva needs more guns every month, and we’re the only ones who can supply what they need. More shipments, more money, more leverage.
And yet, through all this, through talks of business and bloodshed, my mind drifts.
I don’t need to look to know where she is. I feel her. I always fucking do.
And I hate it.
The night drags on, a slow, agonizing torture filled with fake smiles, meaningless small talk, and Ashley trailing after me like a fucking lost puppy.
Every time I stop to greet someone, she’s right there, reaching for my hand like we’re some sickeningly in-love couple, playing a role in a show I didn’t fucking sign up for.
I don’t stop her.
Not because I want her. Because I know she’s watching.
And fuck, does it amuse me when I catch my little angel glaring at me from across the room, her brown eyes burning holes into my skin, her expression teetering between fury and something she doesn’t even want to admit to herself, jealousy.
Yeah, watch me, baby. Watch me let another woman hang off my arm while you fume.
But what doesn’t amuse me?
Ian.
That motherfucker is glued to her side like she’s his to protect, his to fucking touch.
Every time I see his hand resting on her lower back, every time he leans in like he’s whispering sweet nothings in her ear, my fingers twitch with the urge to grab him by the throat and smash his fucking face against the marble floors of this overpriced hotel.
Then, the music shifts, low, slow, intimate.
I see it before it happens. Ian turns to her, determination in his stance, moving toward her with that fucking look on his face like he’s about to claim her for a dance.
Not on my fucking watch, Archibald.
I move before my mind even registers it, weaving through the crowd with ease.
My focus is on her, on the golden-haired angel standing by the bar, her body swaying ever so slightly, lips parted, eyes hazy from too many drinks.
She’s talking with Sienna and some other woman I don’t fucking care about, her voice light, her laugh soft.
And then she feels me.
Her body stiffens before my hands are even on her.
I grab her by the waist, pulling her flush against me, her body molding to mine like she belongs there.
Like I own her. Her breath hitches, her back arching slightly at the contact, and when she turns those big, brown eyes up at me, the flash of shock mixed with something else, something she’s too stubborn to admit, almost makes me groan.
Sienna, of course, is already smirking, like she expected this to happen. Like she fucking knew I wouldn’t let her little friend dance with someone else.
"Dance with me," I demand, my voice low, rough.
Her brows furrow, her lips part as if she’s about to tell me to fuck off, but she hesitates.
"No," she finally says, attempting to push away, her palms pressing against my chest.
Cute.
Like that would work.
I tighten my grip on her waist, my fingers digging into her soft curves, and hold her against me, exactly where I want her. Where I need her.
If looks could kill, her glare would have ripped me to fucking shreds.
But I don’t die.
I smirk.
Because the way her chest is rising and falling a little too quickly? The way her fingers twitch against my shirt like she doesn’t know whether to push me or pull me closer?
Yeah, she wants this. She fucking wants me.
"I don’t remember asking," I say coldly, my grip tightening around her waist as I drag her to the dancefloor.
She gasps, stumbling slightly, but I steady her, my fingers digging into her soft flesh. The second we step onto the floor, all eyes are on us. Exactly what I fucking wanted. I can practically feel Archibald’s burning gaze from across the room.
Good. Let him watch. Let him see who she belongs to.
The flashes start immediately, paparazzi snapping pictures like we’re some kind of twisted fairytale, the ruthless businessman and the golden-haired beauty. They’ll have a field day with this tomorrow. I don’t give a fuck.
I can feel Ashley’s glare drilling into the back of my head. Her arms are crossed, her lips pursed in silent rage, standing stiffly by the bar like she’s two seconds away from launching herself at Serena and clawing her eyes out.
My focus is entirely on her.
Serena.
But something’s off.
I narrow my eyes, scanning her face, and suddenly, I see what I missed before.
Her eyes are red.
Her lips look puffier than usual.
And her face, too much foundation.
Covering something.
My grip tightens involuntarily, my blood running hot. What the fuck happened to her?
She doesn’t look like herself. There’s something different in her gaze, something raw. The usual fire in her brown eyes is dimmed, flickering but not burning as brightly. I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like it.
She’s staring at me like she’s trying to figure me out, trying to decipher why I dragged her into this dance, why I can’t keep my fucking hands off her.
"I don’t want you around me, Lorenzo," she says softly, her voice like a fucking whisper against my skin.
That voice. That fucking voice.
My name has never sounded better.
She doesn’t push me away, though. She doesn’t fight me.
"Your date is watching us," she adds, her lips barely moving. "You should be dancing with her, not with me."
Her gaze never leaves mine, searching, questioning. She’s so goddamn close, her warmth seeping into me, her scent, vanilla, fucking vanilla, wrapping around me like a chokehold.
Why the fuck is she so beautiful?
Why does she look broken?
Why do I want to destroy anyone who had anything to do with it?
I pull her closer, pressing her against me, and the intoxicating scent of vanilla floods my senses. Fuck. This woman is dangerous. She’s addictive in a way I can’t fucking explain, and the worst part? I don’t even care.
I could hold her like this for ages. I would hold her like this for ages. And I wouldn’t get bored. Not even for a second.
"Is that so?" I murmur against her ear, my lips brushing against her soft skin.
She shivers.
Even with her heels, she barely reaches my chest, the height difference almost laughable. But there’s nothing funny about this. Nothing amusing about the way this tiny, delicate woman has me fucking folding without even trying.
My fingers ghost over the exposed skin of her back, slow and deliberate, memorizing every inch, every curve. Her hair is impossibly soft, her body warm, fitting against mine like she was fucking made for me. Everything about her is perfect, and it makes my head fucking hurt.
"Yes," she finally breathes, her voice barely a whisper.
She probably didn’t even mean for me to hear it. But I do.
And it doesn’t fucking matter. Because right now, she’s in my arms, dancing with me like she belongs there.
And she does.
I ignore her little lie and let my fingers trail lower, feeling her body tremble under my touch. Then, I hear it.
A tiny, barely-there whimper.
Fuck.
My grip tightens.
She’s mine. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
The song ends, and she tries to pull away. Not happening.
I tighten my grip around her waist, holding her in place. "One more dance," I say, my thumb brushing against her cheek, my eyes fixated on her lips.
Fuck, those fucking lips.
"I meant it when I said I don’t want you around me, Lorenzo." Her voice is softer this time, but the way she looks at me? She’s trying to convince herself more than she’s trying to convince me.
I smirk. Liar.
"You’re not a good sport," she adds, her nose scrunching slightly in frustration.
I push a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Do I look like fucking cricket, beautiful?’ I tease, watching the annoyance flash in her eyes.
British girls and their expressions. Fucking adorable.
"You know what I meant," she huffs, clearly unimpressed with my joke. "You’re not a good person."
That almost makes me laugh. Not a good person? No shit.
"I might not be," I murmur, my voice dropping lower, just for her. "But I take very good care of your sweet little pu—"
"Lorenzo!" She jumps, eyes wide, face turning a pretty shade of pink.
I chuckle, completely unbothered. "What?"
She glares at me. "Could you please stop talking like that in public?"
The word please coming from her lips? Fuck. If she knew what it did to me, she’d never say it again.
I lean in slightly, my lips near her ear. "Should I save it for our private sessions then?"
Her glare sharpens, but I can see the way her breath catches. The way her body betrays her.
And then, of course, her father decides to ruin the fucking moment.
"Moretti."
Serena flinches slightly before turning to see the man standing behind her. Thomas Beaumont, jaw clenched, posture stiff, barely holding back the rage simmering under his skin. He must’ve been watching us for the last ten minutes, seething.
I smirk.
"Beaumont," I reply, voice cold, indifferent. "Are you enjoying the party?"
He looks like he wants to break my face. Instead, he schools his expression.
"Yes, thank you for the invitation," he lies through his teeth before shifting his sharp gaze to his daughter. "Serena, a word."
She hesitates, and I see it. Fear.
I don’t like that.
She pulls away from me slowly, hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to leave. I should let her go. I should fucking let her go.
But I don’t.
I tighten my grip, just enough to remind her that I’m still here. That I see her. That whatever the fuck is going on with her? I know.
Her father doesn’t.
He just thinks he’s winning.
She finally steps back, avoiding my gaze, and follows him. I watch her walk away, the sight making my blood boil. I want to follow her. I want to see what the fuck he’s about to say to her.
But instead, Ashley appears at my side, already talking. Something about me making her look bad. Something about how I embarrassed her. Something about her fucking feelings.
I ignore her completely and head straight to the bar.
Andres is already there. His drink untouched. His eyes not on me.
His eyes are on her.
And I don’t fucking like it.