Chapter 7
Domenico
Manhattan's cold slaps me in the face as I open the limo door. The pavement shines with rain. October in New York. The night smells like exhaust, the wind howling down the street. I pull Besiana beside me as we walk up the steps of the Met, our shoes loud on the wet concrete. She shivers a little in her dress, and I feel the eyes of the city on us—ravenous, waiting. Her dark hair is like ink against her bare skin. Her heels could be weapons. This is a test, for both of us. My hand grips hers tighter. The flashbulbs explode around us, and I keep walking. I want them to look. I want them to see her, to know she’s mine.
Inside, the gala unfolds, all glitter and noise and light. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, spilling gold onto the crowd below. Men in tuxedos and women in dresses worth more than some men’s lives. Laughter and music drown the air, mixing with the smell of champagne and rich perfume.
But all I see is red. Besiana’s dress. The low cut makes her look exposed, almost fragile, but there’s strength in the way she holds herself, head high, spine straight. She is perfect. More than the daughter of my father's enemy. More than an obligation.
I lean close to her, my mouth at her ear, watching the way she steels herself for my words. “Let’s make them talk,” I say.
Her eyes flicker up to mine, cool and composed. “I thought you didn’t care for gossip.”
“I don’t,” I say, pulling her through the room. “But it’s time they know who you are.”
She doesn’t resist. We weave through the sea of people, and the looks follow us, hungry and shocked. They probably didn’t believe that the Rosetti heir married so fast. Besiana is too calm, too collected, and I wonder how much of this is an act. I want to see what’s beneath it, beneath her.
I grab a champagne for Besiana from a passing tray and order a whiskey for myself.
“Stay by my side,” I tell her. “I want you where I can touch you.” I don’t touch her, though, she hasn’t earned that yet.
I’ve never said that to another woman, but I want to see just how obedient my new wife is. How far I can push her before she bites back and shows me that fire I know is lurking beneath the surface.
“Of course, Domenico,” she replies serenely, not faltering for even a moment.
“Smile at no one unless I speak to them first.”
She may not know it, but my wife is surrounded by predators, by charming liars and power players. And I don’t just mean myself.
“Certainly.” She sips her champagne and looks around with a benign expression, completely untouched by my commands.
Her obedience unsettles me. Every request, every demand—she doesn’t falter.
I thought this would be different, that she would resist, that the fire I saw before wasn’t just a fluke.
It makes me want to push harder, to see if she will crack, to see what she’s hiding.
I test her again. Her acceptance pierces me more than defiance would.
When a string quartet starts up and the bolder guests begin to sway, I lean forward and whisper into my wife’s ear. “Dance with me. Only me.”
Her obedience is disarming and exhilarating, especially since I know it masks fire. How far will she let me push her? Who will she be when I break past that icy calm? How long before the spark catches and she shows her true colors? I don't know, and it's thrilling.
I pull her against me as the music swells, both of us moving in sync.
Her body flush against mine sends a message to the crowd, one that echoes louder than the notes—possession.
There isn’t an ounce of romance in the way I twirl her around the floor, only raw display.
She’s more than a wife; she’s a statement.
A claim. Let them see. Let them wonder how I managed to get my ring on the Albanian mafia princess so quickly.
My lips brush against her ear, and I know she must feel the heat of my skin.
“You dance well,” I murmur.
“Of course,” she replies smoothly, not even a blink. “I was trained in every art of high society. And family life.”
Her voice is like ice, stressing family in a way that tells me exactly which one she means.
The Albanian one. Not just her sweet old mom and pop.
There’s a hint of arrogance in the way she says it, as if to remind me she’s not just some trophy.
Remind me who she really is underneath that beautiful exterior.
Even as I pull her tighter and the music wraps around us, she stays perfect.
There are no fractures in Besiana. No cracks.
Her shoulders are back and chin high, her face like porcelain.
I keep expecting her to falter, to show some sign of weakness, but she’s flawless, and it makes me even hungrier to know what she’s hiding beneath that pristine surface.
Every moment of silence between us stretches the tension tighter, and I wish she would say something, anything, just so I can watch those cool, calculating eyes for a hint at what she’s really thinking. What she’s really feeling.
I test her again, my voice low. “Every art? Including seduction?”
I twirl her around, pulling her against me with a force that sends a message. This is power. This is dominance. This is me. Her chest presses against mine, and I swear I can feel her heartbeat, steady and unfazed. It's maddening.
She bats her eyelids with a mocking sweetness that nearly makes me laugh. “Of course. And hand-to-hand combat.” Her words slice through the music, cutting straight to my core.
There it is. A flicker of heat in her gaze, a flash that breaks through her controlled exterior.
I see the fire, real and vibrant. It strikes me hard, makes me hard, and I’m left wanting more.
It makes me want to conquer her, to strip away those layers until I’m the only thing she’s thinking of until she’s breathless and begging.
It takes all my strength to pull away before I rip that red dress off her. This is not the place to show her how badly I want to own every inch of her. Not yet. I can’t have the city whispering about the Rosetti heir’s blue balls just days after the wedding.
I steer her through the crowd again. More faces turn. People murmur our names. She plays the role of the perfect wife too well. She stands beside me, smiling when she should smile, quiet when she should be quiet. An accessory, beautiful and unbreakable.
A couple of real estate bores approach, and I introduce them to Besiana.
Watching her closely, I’m pleased to see she doesn’t smile at them until after I’ve spoken.
I let her linger with the property developers and their wives while I find my brothers, each glance back at her setting my jaw tighter.
She’s still serene and poised when I spot them.
Raffaele has a drink in hand and looks at me with a knowing grin.
“Didn’t think you’d show up,” he says, leaning against a pillar like he owns it. His black leather gloves don’t match the tux, but they suit him.
“We don’t all have the luxury of ignoring the boss,” I reply, throwing a look at Matteo and Emilio, who are deep in conversation and barely acknowledge me.
Rafe snorts. “You mean Salvatore or the woman?”
I ignore him and take a long drink. “We need to talk about Iride distribution.”
“We’ve gotta get it on the streets, Dom,” he says, his grin gone. “We can move it fast. Make a shitload of money.”
“Make a mess, you mean,” I counter. “This stays high-end. Low profile. Rich clients only. Exclusive clientele with deep pockets who know how to stay out of trouble.”
He narrows his eyes, ice blue and cutting. “It’s too slow. Too fucking soft.”
“It keeps it under control,” I say. “Keeps it from getting ugly.”
“It’s a fucking drug, not a puppy,” Rafe shoots back.
He follows it up with more bullshit, but I’m too distracted to listen.
Besiana has been politely declining invitations to dance, but now she’s talking to one of the real estate moguls one-on-one, with no sign of the fucking wives.
And she’s laughing. Too close to another man.
The sound of her laughter cuts through the room, and my grip tightens around the glass.
“It’s my fucking call, Rafe,” I spit out.
I’m halfway to Besiana before he finishes, my attention on her and the man beside her.
He’s talking too much, gesturing with his hands like he has any right to put them so close to my wife.
Her laugh is bright, almost real, and the jealousy flares sharp in my chest. He shouldn’t be near her.
No one should. I don’t fucking care if I make a scene.
Then the music changes, and her face freezes. It’s gone white, all the color stripped away. Her smile drops, and she isn’t laughing now. She looks like she can’t breathe. I forget about the man and focus on her. My own breath catches, and I’m in front of her before I know it, my hand on her arm.
“Besiana.”
Her eyes are wide, empty. “Dom—”
“What is it?” I ask. I scan the room like it’s something I can destroy with a look.
The music. The string quartet has switched songs. I recognize the tune, low and lilting.
She’s trembling, and my chest twists.
“Besiana.”
“I can’t—” She’s gulping for air, her hand at her throat. “I can’t be in here.”
The man starts to say something, but I shoot him a look that shuts his mouth. I wrap my arm around her and steer her towards the door. The crowd blurs as we push through, and then the night hits us again, cold and raw.
We stand under the cover of the entrance, and she leans against the stone, breathing hard. I’ve never seen her like this, exposed and broken. Something in me snaps.
“Talk to me,” I say. “Did that man say something to you? I will fucking kil—”
“I’m fine,” she says, but it’s a lie, it’s written all over her body.
“Bullshit.” I don’t care if my voice is rough. “What was that?”
She looks away, a tremor still in her fingers. “That song.”
“Keep going.”
“I haven’t heard it since I was a child.” Her voice cracks a little, and the sound is worse than anything. “It was my mother’s favorite.”
The words hit me, and I understand. “Your mother died when you were young.”
Her face crumples, and I pull her tight against me, nestled into my chest where she belongs, and I wrap my jacket around her bare shoulders, cocooning us both.
My jaw is clenched so hard it aches. I can still hear the music inside, the muffled sound wrapping around me.
I should care more about the deal, the drugs, about my brothers who are still inside.
But all I care about is the woman in front of me, the way her composure crumbles, the way she pulls herself back together.
I hold her until her shivering stops, feeling my heart clench. Maybe there’s more than just fire beneath her mask. My ice-cold wife holds a gamut of secret emotions, and I want to understand every one of them.