Chapter 25
25
EMILIA
T he bid sheet mocked me.
I stood at the silent auction table, one manicured finger tracing the edge of the clipboard, my movements slow and deliberate, like I was contemplating world peace instead of a month-long luxury getaway in Tuscany. The ballroom buzzed faintly behind me—laughter, murmured conversations, the soft clink of champagne flutes—but here, at the edge of the room, it all felt muted, distant, as if this little sheet of paper held the only sound that mattered.
Someone—some smug, overcompensating donor with too much money and not nearly enough taste—had outbid me.
By five thousand dollars.
I narrowed my eyes at the name scrawled above mine, the black ink slanted and careless, like they didn’t even need to try.
“R. Conti.”
Of course.
The Contis weren’t exactly subtle, and their competitive streaks were practically genetic. But I wasn’t about to lose a villa in the hills of Chianti to some third cousin with a God complex and a gaudy gold chain.
Not when I’d already mentally packed my bags.
I could see it now: drinking wine on a balcony, the sun setting over sprawling vineyards, the scent of lavender and cypress trees thick in the air. A temporary escape from a world where guns and whispered threats were part of the furniture.
No.
This chateau was mine.
I picked up the pen, the smooth weight of it cold against my fingers, and added another ten thousand to the bid. The ink glided across the paper, bold and confident, and I signed my name with a flourish that was almost petty.
There.
Try me now.
Stepping back, I crossed my arms, a smug little smirk tugging at my lips. “Put it on my husband’s tab,” I muttered under my breath, amused by the very idea. Dante had told me to spend money tonight. I was simply following instructions.
The thought of his reaction made me chuckle—low and soft, a sound meant only for myself. He’d probably grunt, roll his eyes, and then pull me into his lap later, whispering something obscene about how I’d better make the trip worth it.
I was still smiling when I turned around.
And ran straight into a wall of muscle wrapped in a designer suit.
“Oh,” I said, startled, my heels scuffing against the marble as I stepped back. “Sorry.”
The man in front of me smiled—a little too wide, a little too polished. His teeth gleamed in the soft lighting of the ballroom, his dark eyes sharp and glittering.
“Emilia,” he said smoothly, his voice low and warm, like we were old friends. “It’s been a long time.”
I blinked, my brows knitting together slightly. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
He tilted his head, his smile never faltering. “Rocco. Rocco Conti.”
Ah.
Dante’s cousin.
I’d seen him before—at family dinners, meetings, the occasional gathering where everyone pretended not to be armed. He was always polite, always smiling, always just a little too smooth for my liking.
But now, standing this close, something prickled at the back of my neck.
Recognition.
Not from a dinner. Not from a party.
From a photograph.
The album.
The one with the man I couldn’t name. The man who’d been in my father’s office the day I was handed the wrong paperwork. The man who’d stood in the corner like he didn’t matter.
It was him.
I was sure of it.
But I didn’t let it show.
I forced a smile, polite but distant, my hands clasping lightly in front of me. “Of course. Rocco. Nice to see you again.”
His gaze slid over me, slow and assessing, the kind of look that lingered just a second too long. “You look stunning tonight,” he said, his tone smooth as silk. “Dante’s a lucky man.”
I tilted my head slightly, keeping my expression neutral. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” I said lightly. “He’ll get possessive.”
Rocco chuckled, but the sound was low, hollow, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “He always was. Even as a kid. Had to have the best of everything.”
“And you?” I asked, arching a brow.
His smile sharpened, a flicker of something cold flashing through his eyes. “I’ve always been more… subtle.”
That prickle of awareness turned into a chill, sliding down my spine like ice.
There was something in his tone. Something in the way he looked at me—not like a cousin or a friend of the family, but like he was cataloging me. Measuring. Calculating.
I stepped back slightly, just enough to put some space between us without making it obvious. “Well, enjoy the gala, Rocco.”
“I always do,” he said, his smile widening. “Especially when the company’s this lovely.”
There it was again—something just beneath the surface, something I couldn’t name but felt in every fiber of my being.
I didn’t respond.
I turned and walked away, my heels clicking against the marble, the sound echoing faintly in the space between us.
My pulse thudded in my ears, loud and uneven, but I kept my steps steady, my pace measured.
I didn’t look back.
I didn’t have to.
I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and unrelenting, following every move I made.
I spotted Dante near the bar, talking to Rafe.
His posture was relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass filled with something dark and undoubtedly expensive. The soft lighting of the ballroom glinted off his cufflinks, highlighting the sharp lines of his suit and the effortless authority he carried. He looked like he belonged here—like he owned the room.
And maybe he did.
But I didn’t care about that right now.
I needed him.
My heels clicked against the polished marble as I crossed the room, weaving through the crowd with a single-minded determination. I barely registered the polite smiles and raised glasses of the people I passed, their voices blending into the background like white noise.
Dante turned the second I reached him, his dark eyes locking onto mine, scanning my face like he could already tell something was wrong.
“Emilia?” he asked, his voice low, steady. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly. “I’m fine.”
His brow furrowed, the faintest tick of irritation flashing across his face. “You don’t look fine.”
I forced a smile, reaching for his drink and taking a sip without asking. The bourbon burned its way down my throat, the heat grounding me for a moment. “Just needed a moment,” I said, keeping my tone light.
He didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way his eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening. But he didn’t push.
Rafe, ever the diplomat, gave me a polite nod and murmured something about needing to check on Luca before slipping away into the crowd.
Dante turned fully to face me, his body blocking out the rest of the room, his hand finding its place at the small of my back. The weight of it was firm, possessive, and oddly comforting.
“Talk to me,” he said softly, his tone dropping to something only I could hear.
I hesitated.
Because how could I explain it?
How could I tell him that I’d just had a conversation with his cousin and suddenly felt like I was balancing on the edge of a trapdoor? That I recognized Rocco not from family gatherings but from the shadows of my father’s office? That something about him made my skin crawl, even now, when he wasn’t standing in front of me?
I couldn’t.
Not yet.
So instead, I leaned into Dante, letting his warmth settle over me like armor. He smelled like bourbon and something darker, sharper—like control wrapped in danger.
“I’m okay,” I said again, softer this time, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just tired.”
He studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine as if he could pull the truth straight from my head. Then he nodded, his thumb brushing against the small of my back. “We’ll leave soon.”
I nodded, grateful.
But my mind was still racing.
Because now I had a name.
Rocco.
I’d seen him in the photo. I’d seen him in my father’s office. I’d seen him standing in the background like he didn’t matter.
But he did.
He mattered more than I could explain, and I needed to figure out why.
Before I could linger on the thought, the lights dimmed suddenly, drawing the crowd’s attention to the stage at the front of the ballroom. A man in a tuxedo stepped up to the microphone, his smile broad and practiced as his voice boomed over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his tone dripping with the kind of false charm that came naturally to people in rooms like this, “thank you all for being here tonight to support the St. Gabriel Alumni Fund. I’m pleased to announce that we’ve already raised over two million dollars so far, and we’re not done yet.”
Polite applause rippled through the room, a sea of gloved hands and sparkling jewelry.
I clapped along with everyone else, but my heart wasn’t in it. My gaze flicked toward the auction table at the far end of the room, where the bid sheet with R. Conti’s name still sat, mocking me.
“But before we continue,” the MC continued, his smile widening as his gaze swept over the crowd, “we’d like to take a moment to recognize one of our newest alumni couples—Dante and Emilia Conti.”
My stomach dropped.
Beside me, Dante stiffened, his grip on my back tightening ever so slightly.
And then the spotlight hit us.
It was blinding, harsh, and unforgiving, slicing through the dim elegance of the room and landing squarely on us. I felt the weight of a hundred eyes turning our way, the collective attention of the powerful and dangerous pressing down on me like a physical force.
I forced a smile, my lips curving mechanically as Dante took my hand. His grip was firm, grounding, but I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat.
He hated this.
So did I.
But we climbed the steps to the stage together, standing beneath the lights like royalty on parade.
The MC beamed at us, his polished smile never faltering. “Let’s give a round of applause to the Contis—proof that even in our world, love can bloom.”
The crowd clapped again, their applause polite, controlled, and entirely insincere.
I smiled.
Dante didn’t.
We stood there for what felt like an eternity, the lights too bright, the applause too forced. My cheeks ached from the effort of pretending, but I didn’t let the mask slip.
Then, just as the applause began to fade, the MC leaned in, his voice dropping low enough for only us to hear.
“Smile, kids,” he murmured, his tone laced with something sharp and condescending. “You’re the picture of power.”
And just like that, we were dismissed.
We descended the steps in silence, Dante’s hand still gripping mine, his jaw tight and his gaze fixed straight ahead.
When we reached the floor, he turned to me, his voice low. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
But I wasn’t.
Because as we walked back into the crowd, I caught sight of Rocco near the auction table. He was standing there, his hands in his pockets, his expression calm. But his eyes…
His eyes found mine, and for a moment, they held.
And that same prickle of unease slid down my spine.
Because Rocco looked at me like he knew something.
And I was starting to think he did.
I glanced back toward the auction table, my pulse quickening.
The bid sheet was still there, R. Conti’s name still scrawled above mine.
But I didn’t care about the villa anymore.
I cared about the man who’d tried to take it from me.
And why he looked like a ghost from my past.
I squeezed Dante’s hand tighter, my nails digging into his palm.
Because I had a feeling we were about to dig up something neither of us was ready for.