Chapter 8
Gemma
The Langham ballroom glittered like a jewelry box.
My hand rested on Dante’s arm, light but steady, as we moved through the crowd.
Emerald silk whispered against my legs with each step.
Donatella had picked the dress—"You need something that says 'I will destroy you and look gorgeous doing it,'" she'd announced, shoving me toward the fitting room. She wasn't wrong.
The Chicago Children's Hospital gala drew the particular blend of old money and new power that made these events feel like a trumped-up chess match. Everyone was watching everyone else. Calculating. Measuring. Looking for weakness. Sniffing it out.
I'd learned the choreography faster than I expected.
The Gambettis required warmth—genuine smiles, inquiries about the new grandchild.
The Rossinis got cool acknowledgment, a nod that respected their position without promising anything more.
The mayor's wife needed compliments on her dress.
The federal judge in the corner needed to be avoided entirely until Dante had a chance to assess which way the winds were blowing.
"You're good at this," Dante murmured near my ear as we left a cluster of city councilmen.
"I was brought up to do it. My whole life was school for this."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh.
I was still learning to read him. The way his hand pressed firmer against the small of my back when he was pleased.
The slight softening around his eyes when something surprised him.
The heat that flickered through his gaze sometimes when he caught me looking at him—heat that made me remember a kiss in a darkened hallway, his forehead pressed to mine, words neither of us had finished saying.
We hadn't repeated that kiss. We'd circled around it instead, building something slower, more careful. Late-night tea in the kitchen. His hand brushing mine as we passed in doorways. The way he said my name sometimes, like it meant something.
I was starting to think it did.
"Mrs. Caruso."
The voice cut through my thoughts like a blade wrapped in silk.
I turned to find a woman approaching—sixty, maybe, with the kind of preserved beauty that required an army of specialists and unlimited funds.
Diamonds dripped from her ears, her throat, her wrists.
Her smile was the most expensive thing she wore, and the most false.
"Victoria Marchetti." Dante's voice was neutral, but I felt the tension that ran through him. A warning I filed away.
"Don Caruso." Victoria's eyes swept over me with the frank assessment of a woman who had spent a lifetime cataloging other women's flaws. "And the new bride. How lovely you look, my dear. Green suits you."
"Thank you." I kept my voice warm. Gracious.
Victoria sipped her champagne, positioning herself so that nearby guests could hear without appearing to eavesdrop. I recognized the maneuver. I'd watched my mother use it at a hundred events before she died.
"Such a lovely match," Victoria said, her voice carrying just far enough. "The Morettis must be so relieved to finally find a use for you."
I felt a sudden spike of adrenaline.
"I suppose every family needs its broodmare."
Someone nearby inhaled sharply. A ripple of attention spread through the crowd—people pretending not to watch while watching intently.
This was the game. The blood sport disguised as small talk.
And I was supposed to crumble, supposed to flush and stammer and prove that Victoria Marchetti still had the power to wound.
Beside me, Dante went rigid. I felt the fury rising in him like heat off pavement—the protective instinct that had been there since the wedding, the part of him that wanted to put himself between me and anything that might hurt me.
My hand tightened on his arm.
Stay. Watch.
His jaw flexed. But he stayed.
I turned to Victoria with a smile so serene it could have hung in a museum.
"How kind of you to take an interest in my reproductive potential, Mrs. Marchetti." My voice came out smooth as honey. Warm. Almost friendly. "I understand the curiosity—your own children must be such a disappointment."
Victoria's smile froze. Something flickered behind her eyes—surprise, then the beginning of outrage.
I wasn't finished.
"Three sons, isn't it? And not one of them willing to take over the family business.
" I tilted my head, letting sympathy bleed into my expression.
False sympathy. The kind that drew blood.
"I heard the eldest moved to Portland to sell organic produce.
The middle one is in therapy, last I heard.
And the youngest—" I paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Well. We don't talk about the youngest's gambling debts, do we?
Some things are better left unmentioned in polite company. "
Victoria's face had gone purple. Her champagne trembled in her grip.
"It must be exhausting," I continued, "watching your legacy crumble while you critique other women's wombs. I do hope you're taking time for self-care. Stress ages a person so terribly."
I sipped my champagne, letting the moment settle.
"Do enjoy the gala." My smile never wavered. "The shrimp puffs are exceptional."
I turned away before she could respond, steering Dante toward a cluster of guests who had been watching with barely concealed fascination. His arm was tense under my hand, coiled with something that might have been fury or something else entirely.
My champagne trembled in my grip.
I set it down on a passing waiter's tray before anyone could notice. Accepted a fresh glass. Wrapped my fingers around the stem and willed them to be still.
"That was magnificent," someone said—a woman with silver hair and kind eyes, someone's wife, someone's mother. "Victoria has been terrorizing these events for decades. It's about time someone put her in her place."
"She was simply making conversation." My voice came out smooth. Practiced. "I was happy to oblige."
The woman laughed. Others joined in. The circle expanded, drew me deeper into conversation about hospital funding and children's programs and all the safe, bloodless topics that made these galas bearable.
I performed. That was what I did. What I'd always done.
But my shoulders ached with the effort of holding them straight. My smile had gone brittle at the edges, threatening to crack if I pressed too hard. The adrenaline that had carried me through the confrontation was draining away, leaving something hollow in its wake.
I'd won. I knew I'd won. Victoria Marchetti would think twice before coming at me again—would think twice before coming at anyone connected to the Caruso name.
But winning shouldn't feel like this.
I needed air.
I needed to get out of this room before I shattered in front of three hundred witnesses and proved Victoria Marchetti right.
I murmured excuses to Dante and the other people around me—powder room, just need a moment, I'll be right back—and turned toward the nearest exit. My heels clicked too loud against the marble floor. My heart pounded too hard against my ribs.
I found a door. Pushed through it. Didn't stop until I reached a small sitting room with windows overlooking the city lights and blessed, empty silence.
The door clicked shut behind me.
And I finally let myself fall apart.
The window was cold against my palms.
I pressed harder, letting the chill seep through my skin, trying to anchor myself to something solid.
My shoulders shook. I couldn't stop them.
The champagne sat abandoned on a side table behind me, condensation beading on the crystal.
I couldn't remember setting it down. Couldn't remember crossing the room.
Couldn't remember anything between the door clicking shut and this moment—hands flat against cold glass, breath fogging in small desperate bursts, the emerald silk of my dress suddenly too tight around my ribs.
I was fine. I was always fine. I just needed a moment to—
The door opened.
I didn't turn. "I'm fine. Just needed a moment. I'll be back out in—"
"Look at me."
Dante's voice was gentle. But it was still a command.
My body responded before my mind could catch up.
I turned—some automatic compliance built into my bones, trained by years of obeying men who expected obedience—and found him standing just inside the doorway.
The ballroom light spilled in behind him, catching the sharp angles of his face, the rigid set of his shoulders.
His expression made my chest crack open.
He was looking at me like I was something precious that had been dropped. Like he wanted to gather up the pieces and put them back together himself, if only I'd let him.
I couldn't let him. I couldn't let anyone.
But the composure I'd been clutching like a lifeline was crumbling, and I couldn't seem to make it stop.
Tears burned behind my eyes—the ones I'd been fighting since Victoria's words landed—and I was furious with myself for breaking.
Furious for being this weak. Furious for proving that underneath all the armor, I was exactly as fragile as everyone assumed.
He crossed the room in three strides.
His hands found mine—still pressed against the window, still trembling—and wrapped around them. Warm. Steady. The calluses on his palms rough against my fingers.
"You don't have to perform for me."
The words hit something raw.
"I don't know how to do anything else." My voice came out cracked. Wrong. The voice of a woman who had spent too long pretending and finally run out of strength to maintain the lie.
He pulled my hands from the glass, held them between us. His thumbs traced circles against my palms—small, steady movements that somehow made breathing easier.
"That woman—she doesn't matter. What she said—"
"I know." The words scraped past the tightness in my throat. "I know it doesn't matter. I know I handled it. I know I won."