Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Kristen
The dress weighs nothing, but I feel the silk against my skin with every breath.
Vittoria and I spent three days hunting for the perfect gowns.
Three days of boutiques, champagne, and Vittoria dramatically declaring everything "absolutely not" until we found the ones.
Mine is blue, backless, with a slit that climbs dangerously high on my left thigh.
Vittoria's is green, structured at the bodice, flowing at the bottom—she looks like a goddess of vengeance.
Tonight is the first gala where I walk in as Nico Sartori's girlfriend.
The Moretti Foundation's winter charity event glitters before us. Same venue as the night I performed the Heimlich on Aria while wearing a cheap catering uniform.
Different entrance this time.
Nico's hand presses against the bare skin of my lower back as we pause at the top of the stairs.
"Every man in this room is going to want you," he murmurs against my ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. "And every single one of them will know you're mine."
Heat pools low in my belly. "Nico—"
"I'm going to spend the entire night thinking about peeling this dress off you." His voice drops lower, darker. "About spreading you across our bed and making you scream until you forget your own name."
My thighs clench together involuntarily. Bastard.
"You're going to regret this," I whisper back, turning my head slightly so my lips graze his jaw. "Making me wet before we even walk in there."
Nico laughs. "Love, I'm counting on it."
We descend the staircase together, his hand never leaving my back. I catch glimpses of us in the mirrored walls.
I've spent years making myself small. Tonight, I take up space.
Nico guides me through the crowd, nodding at business associates, exchanging brief words with men whose names I don't catch. His fingers trace small circles on my bare skin, a constant reminder of his presence.
When we reach Vittoria near the bar, Nico leans down to kiss my temple. "I need to find Pietro. Stay with Vittoria—I'll be back in ten minutes."
"I think I can survive ten minutes without you."
"The question is whether I can survive ten minutes without you." He gives Vittoria a look that clearly says watch her, then disappears into the crowd.
Vittoria hands me a champagne flute. "You two are disgusting."
"Thank you."
"Seriously. The eye-fucking is out of control."
I take a sip of champagne to hide my smile. "Says the woman who made me try on forty-seven dresses."
"Forty-three. And I was right about the blue." She gestures at me with her glass. "You look incredible."
"So do you."
We clink glasses, watching the glittering crowd swirl around us.
"Vittoria Sartori." Someone calls. The man's voice is too loud, his movements slightly uncoordinated. Loosened tie, the flush of someone who's been hitting the open bar hard. "Been a long time."
I don't recognize him, but Vittoria clearly does. Her jaw tightens. "James."
"You look amazing." He steps closer, invading her space. "I've been thinking about you. About us."
"There was no 'us.'" Vittoria shifts away, but James follows. "We had one date three years ago."
"Best date of my life." His hand reaches for her arm.
Vittoria's voice sharpens. "Don't touch me."
He doesn't move.
My fingers tighten around my champagne flute. I'm about to step forward, insert myself between them, when a larger figure materializes behind James.
"The lady told you not to touch her."
James spins around, nearly losing his balance. "Who the hell—"
"Leave." One word. Final.
Jame's liquid courage evaporates under that stare. He mutters something unintelligible and stumbles away toward the bar.
He is Dmitri Baganov. I know because I saw picture of him the other day when Nico and Dante talked about him.
"Are you alright?"
Vittoria's chin lifts. "I could have handled it myself."
"I know." He doesn't look away from her face. "But you shouldn't have to."
She stares at him for a long moment. Then she extends her hand—not in greeting, but in dismissal.
"I don't need a white knight."
"I'm not offering to be one." He takes her hand, but instead of shaking it, he turns it over and presses his lips to her knuckles.
Vittoria snatches her hand back like she's been burned.
She walks away without looking back, spine straight, shoulders squared.
He watches her go. The expression on his face isn't anger or frustration.
It's fascination.
Oh no.
I recognize that look.
Nico
I find Kristen alone at the bar, and something cold settles in my chest. She's swirling a glass of champagne, watching the crowd.
"Where's Vittoria?" I ask, scanning the room. My sister was supposed to stay with Kristen while I dealt with Pietro.
Kristen sets down her glass. "She went to the bathroom. Some drunk guy named James wouldn't take no for an answer."
My hand clenches around the bar's edge. The wood creaks under my grip. "What?"
"Relax." She places her palm over my fist, and the touch grounds me even as rage burns through my blood. "He's gone. Someone... handled it."
"Someone." I don't like the way she says that. "Who?"
"Dmitri Baganov."
I go still, every muscle locking down as I process. The Bratva heir intervened with my sister. Protected her from some handsy drunk when I wasn't there to do it myself.
"He just... stepped in?" My voice comes out flat. Controlled. The opposite of what I feel.
"James was being aggressive. Dmitri made him leave." Kristen watches my face carefully, reading me the way she always does. "Your sister wasn't happy about it. She walked away the second she realized who he was."
Good. At least Vittoria has sense.
But Kristen's still looking at me with that curious expression. The one that means she's about to say something I won't like.
"What?" I demand.
"Tell me about Dmitri."
My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache. "Why the hell are you asking about another man?"
The words come out rougher than I intend. Possessive. Jealous, even though I know better. Even though Kristen chose me, lives with me, loves me.
She smirks.
Smirks.
"Are you jealous right now?" Her voice drips with amusement, and I want to kiss that smug look right off her face. "Nico Sartori, jealous because I asked a question?"
"I don't share." The growl in my voice should warn her, but Kristen's never been good at heeding warnings. It's one of the things I love about her. And hate.
"I'm not interested in Dmitri Baganov." She steps closer, tilting her head back to meet my eyes. "But I am curious about him."
"Curious." I crowd her against the bar, one hand bracing beside her hip. "About a Bratva heir."
"About the way he looked at your sister."
I freeze.
Kristen's eyes hold mine, steady and knowing. "He looked at Vittoria the way you looked at me. That first night we met, at the gala when I saved your mother."
The words slam into me. I remember that night. And I fucking remember how I looked at her.
And now Kristen's telling me Dmitri Baganov looked at my baby sister the same way.
Fuck.
"You're sure?" My voice comes out hoarse.
"I've been on the receiving end of that look." She touches my jaw, her thumb brushing over the stubble I didn't bother shaving. "I know what it means."
I close my eyes. Process.
"This is a problem," I mutter.
"Is it?" Kristen's fingers trail down my neck. "Vittoria's an adult. And from what I saw, she can handle herself."
"She's my sister."
Kristen's lips curve. "I think she can manage one Russian with a staring problem."
I want to argue. Want to storm across this ballroom and find Dmitri Baganov and make it very clear what happens to men who look at my sister like that.
But Kristen's hand fists in my lapel, pulling me down to her level.
"Stop thinking about murder for five seconds," she murmurs against my lips. "Dance with me instead."
"I don't dance."
"You do tonight."
She leads me toward the floor, and I follow because I'm a goddamn fool for this woman. Because she asked, and I've never been able to deny her anything.
But even as I pull her close, my hand spreading across her lower back, my mind races.
Dmitri Baganov looked at Vittoria the way I looked at Kristen.
And I know exactly how that story ends.