11. Cami
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Cami
The gown was red.
Not just any red. The red that started wars. The red that made men stupid and women dangerous. It clung to my curves, painted on, a sweeping neckline that showed off my collarbones, a slit up the thigh that flashed skin with every step.
I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me was a weapon. Vengeance wrapped in silk and stilettos. Someone who had been broken and put herself back together with sharper edges.
I liked her.
The stairs curved down toward the main hall, and I could see Sal waiting at the bottom. Black suit. Black shirt. No tie. Sin personified. The man mothers warned their daughters about.
He looked up.
And went completely still.
I descended slowly, one hand on the railing, letting him watch. Letting him take in every inch of the dress, the way it moved with me, the way it made me feel powerful and dangerous and beautiful in a way I’d never felt before.
But I was watching him too. The way his throat worked when he swallowed.
The way one hand flexed at his side, like he was holding himself back by force.
He’d shaved, I noticed. He’d shaved and there was a tiny nick along his jaw where his hand must have slipped, and for some stupid reason that little imperfection made my chest go warm.
This terrifying man had stood at a mirror and gotten nervous enough to cut himself.
Over me. The thought did something dangerous to my insides.
When I reached the bottom, he still hadn’t moved. Hadn’t blinked. His gray eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
“What?” The word came out breathless.
He crossed the distance between us in three strides. His hands cupped my face, tilting it up toward his, and then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was thorough. Devastating. He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the taste of me, like he couldn’t get close enough, like if he stopped he might die.
His tongue swept against mine and I melted into him, my hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket, a moan escaping before I could stop it.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
“You look like revenge.” His voice was rough. Wrecked. His thumb traced my bottom lip, swollen from his kiss. “And you’re fucking exquisite.”
I almost fainted.
Just... right there. On the spot. My knees went weak and my heart stuttered and if he hadn’t been holding me I might have actually collapsed.
Fuck.
He was so hot.
“I have something for you.” He stepped behind me, turned me toward the mirror that hung in the entryway. “Close your eyes.”
I closed them.
His fingers brushed my neck. Feather light. Barely there. They trailed down to the zipper at the back of my dress, checking that it was secure, then lingered at my waist. His breath was warm on my shoulder, his chest pressed against my back.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
Something cool touched my throat. Metal. Stones.
“Open.”
I opened my eyes.
The necklace was gorgeous. Diamonds and rubies cascading down my chest like frozen fire, catching the light with every breath I took. It must have cost more than everything I’d ever owned combined.
My breath caught. “Sal...”
“It suits you.” His reflection watched me in the mirror, his eyes dark and possessive. “Red for revenge. Diamonds because you deserve them.”
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The weight of the necklace against my skin, the heat of his body behind me, the intensity of his gaze in the mirror...
If we didn’t leave now, we weren’t leaving at all.
“Later.” His lips brushed my ear, making me shiver. “After we make Logan watch.”
I was actually excited for later. The thought surprised me, how much I wanted it.
Wanted him. Since that morning when he’d caught me with my hand between my legs, moaning his name, I’d been yearning for him.
Aching. Lying awake at night thinking about his mouth and his hands and all the things he could do to me.
But he’d been a perfect gentleman. Every night in that bed, keeping to his side, never pushing, never taking more than I offered.
Who would have thought?
I wanted him, though. I really, really did.
He guided me to the car, his hand warm on the small of my back. The door opened and I slid inside, the leather cool against my bare thighs. Sal followed, settling beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched.
The car pulled away from the compound.
His hand found my leg.
Just resting there, at first. His palm warm through the silk of my dress, his fingers splayed across my thigh. But then he started moving. Slow, lazy circles. Tracing patterns on my skin that made my breath catch.
I put my hand on top of his.
Squeezed.
He turned his hand over. Laced his fingers through mine. Squeezed back.
We looked at each other.
The moment stretched between us, heavy and slow. His gray eyes were soft in a way I’d never seen them, something vulnerable lurking behind the steel. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could feel it through our joined hands.
Then the car slowed.
“It’s time.” His voice was low. Steady. “Are you ready?”
I took a breath. Let it out slowly. Squeezed his hand one more time.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
***
The gala was everything I expected and worse.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne fountains. Women in designer gowns and men in tailored suits, all of them dripping with wealth and privilege and the casual cruelty that came from never having to face consequences.
The Caldwell Foundation’s annual benefit. Greta’s operation dressed in champagne and canapés.
We entered together.
Every head turned.
The whispers started immediately, rippling through the crowd like waves.
“Is that...”
“The bride. The one who got humiliated at the altar.”
“God, is that who I think it is?”
I glanced at Sal. “How do they know you?”
“I’ve made a name for myself.” His hand was on my back again, steady and warm. “Investments. A few companies. The business that makes people pay attention.”
More whispers reached my ears.
“She’s with him now.”
“After everything that happened...”
“Do you think she’s...”
I held my head high. Let them talk. Let them stare. I walked in on Sal’s arm and let every last one of them get a good look at the woman they’d already buried.
And I knew exactly what half of them had read that morning.
Greta’s story had reached this room before I did.
I caught it in the spaces between the polite words, unstable, poor thing, you heard she’s not well, in the careful pitying glances of people deciding whether they ought to be frightened of me.
Greta wanted them to see a woman coming apart at the seams.
So I gave them the opposite. I smiled. I laughed at something low and filthy Sal murmured against my ear.
I let them watch me be radiant and calm and infuriatingly, unmistakably fine, and I felt the whispers shift in real time, curiosity nudging out the pity, the first hairline cracks in a story Greta had spent good money to build.
Logan stood across the room.
He looked terrible. Pale. Thinner than I remembered. Dark circles under his eyes that no amount of expensive concealer could hide. Rosalie was on his arm, her hand resting on her stomach, performing the pregnancy for everyone watching.
No bump yet. Too early. But her hand sat there anyway, protective and possessive, making sure everyone knew.
Logan wasn’t looking at Rosalie.
He was staring at me like he’d seen a ghost.
Our eyes met across the crowded ballroom. I watched the color drain from his face. Watched his mouth fall open. Watched him take a stumbling step backward, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
Somewhere to his left, Greta’s wine glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the marble floor.
I smiled.
“Bar?” Sal murmured.
“God, yes.”
He guided me through the crowd, his hand never leaving my back, people parting around us like water around a stone. We reached the bar and he leaned in close.
“Champagne?”
“Please.”
He stepped away to order. Just for a moment. Just long enough for me to be alone.
That was when the man approached.
Middle-aged. Expensive suit. A smile that made my skin crawl. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my chest, my hips, the slit in my dress, meat on display.
“Well, well.” His voice was a sneer. “Salvatore’s new pet. How much is he paying you?”
My jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”
“For the evening, I mean.” He stepped closer. Too close. His breath smelled like whiskey and entitlement. “I’m just curious what the going rate is. And if you’re free later, once he’s done with you for the night...”
“I suggest you walk away.”
“Oh, come on.” His hand closed around my arm. Tight enough to bruise. “Don’t be like that. I’m sure we could work something out. A woman like you, a body like that...”
I slapped him.
The sound echoed through the immediate area. His head whipped to the side. The red mark of my palm bloomed across his cheek.
“Don’t.” My voice was ice. “Touch me.”
His face twisted. Rage replacing shock. His hand rose like he was going to hit me back.
“I wouldn’t.”
Sal’s voice came from behind me. Quiet. Calm. More terrifying than any shout could ever be.
The man froze.
Sal stepped around me, positioning himself between us. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t have to. The danger radiating off him was palpable, filling the air like static before a storm.
“Touch my woman again.” Each word was deliberate. Precise. “And you will lose limb by limb until nothing of you remains but the sad, pathetic excuse for a penis you have.” He smiled. I had never seen anything colder. “My pigs will enjoy filling their bellies with your disgusting carcass.”
The man went white.
Sal stepped closer. Lowered his voice so only the three of us could hear.
“Anyone who disrespects her disrespects me. And I doubt anyone here is that stupid.” He tilted his head. “Are they?”