Chapter 12
12
DANTE
T he marriage contract sat on my desk, her signature bold and defiant, like she’d carved her name into the paper just to spite me. Emilia Conti.
My wife.
I leaned back in my chair, the faintest smirk pulling at my lips as I stared at the document. She’d fought me every step of the way, her fire burning bright even as she signed herself over to me.
And now? Now she was mine—on paper, in name, in every way that mattered. She didn’t realize it yet, but with every stroke of that pen, she’d tied herself to me tighter than she could ever untangle.
My phone ringing pulled me from my thoughts.
The number on the screen was familiar—my bank. I exhaled slowly, already bracing myself as I answered. “Dante Conti.”
“Mr. Conti, this is Alex from the fraud department at your bank,” came the voice on the other end, polite but hesitant. “We’re calling to verify some recent activity on one of your accounts.”
I leaned back in my chair, letting the pen in my hand fall to the desk. “Go on.”
“Well, sir…” There was a pause, the sound of papers rustling faintly in the background. “We’ve flagged multiple high-value transactions in the past seventy-two hours. The total comes to approximately $7.8 million.”
My brow lifted slightly. “Continue.”
“Yes, sir. The charges are spread across several locations—Geneva, Paris, Milan, Monaco, Zurich. Mostly luxury retailers and bespoke boutiques.”
Of course. My lips twitched despite myself. “Let’s hear the highlights.”
“Yes, sir.” Alex cleared his throat. “There’s a $1.2 million charge at a jeweler in Paris. Another $950,000 at a boutique in Geneva specializing in custom platinum and gemstone creations. $2.5 million from a luxury furniture designer in Monaco. And…” He hesitated, clearing his throat again. “$9,800 from what appears to be a luxury toilet seat company in Berlin.”
My lips twitched. “A luxury toilet seat company,” I repeated, my voice flat.
“Yes, sir,” Alex confirmed quickly, like he couldn’t believe it either.
I shook my head, leaning back farther in my chair. “Go on.”
“There’s also a $50,000 charge from a boutique in Milan, $20,000 at a specialty pen store in London, and $15,000 from a luxury goods retailer in Zurich. Oh, and a $1.8 million deposit for what appears to be a company that primarily sells custom Swarovski crystal-encrusted espresso machines and other kitchen appliances.”
A laugh rumbled low in my chest before I could stop it. “A crystal-encrusted espresso machine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a toilet seat,” I added dryly.
“Yes, sir,” Alex replied, the faintest hint of confusion bleeding into his voice. “The details suggest the toilet seat is, uh, bespoke.”
I sat forward, resting my elbows on the desk as I processed the information. Seven-point-eight million dollars. Geneva, Paris, Milan, Monaco. Toilet seats and espresso machines. Emilia had outdone herself.
I let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through the quiet office. “It’s not fraud,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s just my wife.”
“Your… wife?” Alex repeated, like he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Yes,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “She has a flair for the dramatic. Likes to make a statement.”
“I see,” Alex said, though it was obvious he didn’t. “So you’re confirming these charges?”
“Put them all through,” I said simply. “Every last one.”
“All $7.8 million?” His voice rose slightly, like he was waiting for me to change my mind.
“Yes,” I said smoothly. “If my wife wants to test my limits, she’ll find there aren’t any. Put it all through.”
There was a pause, and then: “Understood, sir. We’ll process the transactions immediately.”
“Good,” I said, hanging up and setting the phone down on the desk.
For a moment, I just stared out the window, the absurdity of the situation washing over me. Seven-point-eight million dollars. Geneva, Paris, Milan, Monaco. Crystal-encrusted espresso machines and bespoke toilet seats. She wasn’t just pushing buttons—she was mashing them.
And the ridiculous thing? I wasn’t even mad.
This wasn’t rebellion. This wasn’t about the money. This was her testing me, pushing boundaries, trying to see where the line was. But what she didn’t realize—what she hadn’t figured out yet—was that there was no line. Not for her.
She could spend seven million or seventy. She could throw my money into the wind and light it on fire, and it wouldn’t matter. None of it would. All this did was make her mine in a way no ridiculous purchase ever could.
Because every dollar she spent, every outrageous charge, every absurd inquiry tied her to me a little tighter. She could play her games, test my patience, try to provoke me all she wanted. At the end of the day, she’d still be mine.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.