Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Valentina
“You do like to live dangerously, don’t you, princess?”
Defiantly I bring my chin up to meet Moretti’s gaze.
His mouth set in a firm line, he turns to knock on the door, and we are sealed inside his bedroom.
Ten minutes ago, my decision not to get dressed in the clothes he’d sent up to the room didn’t seem dangerous. Instead, it had been a line in the sand.
I might be his prisoner, but I refuse to cave to his every whim.
But now…
He takes a step toward me, and my pulse turns thready.
I’m in the center of his bedroom, the silk robe—his robe—belted loosely around my waist.
My act of defiance seemed braver when his shoulders weren’t filling up the room. When he wasn’t deliberately walking toward me.
He stops just inches from me.
Now, with the scent of crisp citrus and something much darker wrapping around me, I can’t stop thinking about last night and the way he’d kissed me until I couldn’t remember my own name.
Refusing to cower, I lift my chin.
The atmosphere thickens, becoming supercharged, as if the room is holding its breath.
I stand my ground, and he stops a few inches in front of me.
“Valentina.” His voice is low, rough around the edges.
His gaze drops. Slowly. Deliberately. From my face to the damp strands of my hair clinging to my collarbones, then lower, tracing the open V of the robe.
His gaze turns predatory. And possessive.
Deliberately he curls his hands, flexing his fingers as if he’s fighting the urge to reach for me.
“I see you’re not ready to go.”
Then he lifts a hand, and for a breathless moment, I think he’s going to tug the belt loose.
Instead, he skims his fingertips across the lapel of the robe, tracing the edge where it gapes over my breast. His touch is featherlight, but it burns intensely, making my breath catch. My nipples pebble, pressing against the fabric like traitors.
“You’ll learn to behave as I demand.”
Not a chance in hell, Moretti.
He strokes his thumb just beneath the curve of my breast, and I have to lock my knees to keep from swaying into him.
But I don’t move away. I let him touch me, let the heat of his hand seep through the robe until my skin feels branded. “I’m not your doll to dress, Moretti.”
“Mmm.” The corner of his mouth curves. Again, it’s not quite a smile, more like a predator acknowledging a worthy opponent. “You will be. As of tomorrow.”
God, how I hate his confidence.
He flattens his palm over my chest, against the rapid thud of my heart. “And today? You’re going shopping for a dress and a ring.”
I shake my head.
“Every symbol will be a mark of my possession.”
“I am no one’s possession. Especially a Moretti’s.”
His jaw tightens.
Have I pushed too far?
And too damn bad if I have.
Even though I want to keep the peace, I have my own limits.
He leans in, stealing space that I need to think clearly. “On that contrary, Valentina.” Infuriatingly he wraps a lock of my hair around his index finger, as if he’s toying with me.
My breath catches.
“You’re mine. And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”
His words infuriate me.
And yet…
I hate the way my body responds to him. Hate how I remember every detail of the way his mouth felt on mine—hard and claiming, then softer, coaxing—and the way the taste of him still lingers like a drug in my veins.
“You have two choices.” He drops his hand to the knot at my waist. “You can get dressed.” He shrugs. “Or not. Either way, the car is waiting. And we’re leaving in three minutes.“
Are you serious?
“I really don’t care what you decide.”
I search his gaze, looking for any hint that he’s teasing. But he means it. He’d walk me through a designer boutique in nothing but his own robe just to prove he could.
“Three minutes, Valentina.”
Furious, I step back. Since he’s still got a hand on the belt, the knot slips a little, and so does the neckline.
His breath leaves him in a slow, controlled exhale. For a moment, he just stares, eyes tracing every inch of exposed skin like he’s memorizing it for later.
The silk slides over my skin, the loosened lapel exposing the curve of my shoulder to the cool air of the room—and to his heated, unwavering gaze.
“Time is ticking, Valentina.” He doesn’t move to help me, nor does he pull away. He simply stands there, a mafia underboss watching me realize that I have no cards left to play in this room.
“I hate you,” I whisper, the words tasting like copper and spent adrenaline.
“I’m aware.” With his thumb, he grazes the line of my jaw, a touch so fleeting it might have been a hallucination if not for the trail of fire it leaves behind. “But you’ll still be ready when I say. Unless you want the consequences.”
His eyes gleam then, as if he’s hoping I’ll make that choice.
And part of me is tempted.
What a weird, fucked-up dynamic there is between us.
I’ve spent my life around powerful, arrogant men with no reaction to them. But Dante Moretti…?
What is it about him?
Battling my fury, I spin away from him, retreating toward the walk-in closet where the garment bags he’d sent are waiting like silk-lined cages.
I close the door, giving myself some privacy.
Or rather, the illusion of it.
The man has already undressed me once. And I’m sure that he’s not going to allow his wife her own, separate room.
Unless I can figure a way out of this madness, this is my future.
Blinking away my frustration, I remind myself I’m a Russo. A strategist who has navigated blood-soaked boardrooms and stared down men twice Moretti’s age without blinking. But as I reach for the first garment bag, my fingers are shaking.
It isn’t just from fear. It’s the way my pulse still hammers against my ribs, reacting to a man who represents the destruction of everything I love.
I unzip the bag. Inside is a dress the color of a bruised plum—dark, elegant, and dangerously expensive. It’s a Moretti statement. A brand.
How has he managed this? To find something that I like, in my size, and at this time of the morning?
That he’s so resourceful makes me hate him a little more.
Aware of the time ticking and the fact the bastard will walk in on me if I’m one second late, I strip off the robe.
The chilled air hits my bare skin like a splash of ice water.
I slip into the provided undergarments, somewhat surprised that he’s allowed me any to begin with.
Then I pull the silk dress over my head.
The material flows into places.
In the mirror, I have a critical look. But the gown is perfect, the dress hugging my curves without being overly tight.
He didn’t just kidnap me; he’s catalogued every detail about me.
I step into the chunky heels he provided.
Before opening the door, I pull back my shoulders and intentionally make my features blank. I’m a Mafia princess, and I’m not going to let him, or anyone else, see my inner turmoil.
When I exit the closet exactly three minutes later, Dante is leaning against the opposite wall, his phone in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket.
He looks up, and for a split second, the predator’s mask slips. His eyes darken as he sweeps his gaze over the dress, the heels.
His approval unsettles me more than his bossiness.
Finally he meets my eyes.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, making me bristle as he pockets his phone and pushes off the wall. “Let’s go buy your dress and your ring, Valentina. Don’t you think it’s time the world knows who you belong to?”