Chapter 8
Besiana
The sheets are silk and smooth, and they would be a dream if my mind would just shut off.
But I lie here, eyes closed, remembering my mother’s face, her soft eyes and the song that reminded me.
Even with him inches away, maybe because he’s inches away, I’m too wired to sleep.
I’m in a web I can’t untangle, trapped and a little drunk on the feeling.
I need to breathe. To think. To be alone.
I slide out of bed, the marble cold under my feet. Dom shifts but doesn’t wake, his breath steady and calm. I envy him for that, for being so controlled even in sleep. But it’s not just sleep I’m envious of. I envy him for being so sure of what he wants.
As I tiptoe out, I glance back at his silhouette, broad and unmoving against the pillows.
My chest tightens, a pressure that won’t go away, and I shut the door with barely a sound.
Down the hall to my own room, where I strip out of the red silk dress and drop it to the floor.
A rebellion, this late-night escape and the carelessness of the dress lying there like something dead.
I pull on Armani jeans and a blouse, slipping into the comfort of someone I recognize.
The air outside is crisp, a sharp contrast to the stagnant heat of the mansion.
Security lights flicker on as I pass, and I slide into a car, forcing a smile for the guards, and giving a flippant excuse for popping out.
They nod back, not questioning. I’m the lady of the house now, even if the title sits on me like a weight. They know better than to question.
I glide through the gate, past the tall fences, the surveillance, the guards in black. The car’s quiet purr is almost too soft for my frantic mind. My father’s words loop in my head like a broken record: broken bones mend more easily than broken loyalty. I grit my teeth.
The roads are dark and empty. I love the city at night.
The illusion of space in a place that feels so crowded during the day.
The lights blur past as I head toward Brooklyn, toward an old haunt where no one cares about bloodlines or rings or loyalty.
The Dushku princess playing dress-up, letting her hair down.
I laugh out loud, the sound sharp and hollow in the car’s cocoon.
I haven’t been to the bar in months. Will the bartender will recognize me?
The bar’s dim lights are like a warm hug as I walk in, the heavy door creaking in welcome.
Smoke lingers in the air, mixing with sweat and the tang of cheap whiskey.
It’s not packed, but there’s enough of a crowd for me to lose myself in.
I find a seat at the bar, ignoring the curious glances, and order a drink.
Bourbon. Neat. There are no eyes on me, so I can drink whatever the hell I want.
The first sip burns, and I savor it. I let it sting as it goes down.
It makes me think of her, of my mother, of Valmira and her simple dresses and gentle eyes.
Mami, I called her, but she was never just a mom.
She was a woman with a knife and a life she never got to live.
Just like me, only softer. Kinder. I wonder if I would have ended up like this if she’d been around to help me.
Another sip, and I let the warmth chase away the ghost of Dom’s breath on my neck. I let it numb the tight coil of anger and longing that’s been twisted inside me since the gala this evening. Since that song played. Since always.
I should have come without this jewelry that screams Rosetti money. I take off the huge engagement ring, the wedding band, too, and shove them in my pocket. A challenge to anyone who dares to call me owned.
My glass is empty, and I’m halfway to drunk when the bartender sets another in front of me. “On the house,” he says, his eyes lingering on my face, searching for a name to match it.
“Is this the part where you pretend you don’t remember me?” I ask, lifting the glass. “Or the part where you cut me off because I’m making a scene?”
“Cutting you off means more work for me,” he says, turning away to help another customer.
It feels good to be here, to be anonymous and just a little bit wild. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s life for the night. But no one knows better than I do that borrowed things always have to be returned.
I stare at the drink, and my mind flashes to Dom.
To how furious he would be if he saw me like this.
He wants me to be something I can’t. Tame.
Obedient. Like one of his sleek cars or that fucking house, all steel and glass and nowhere to hide.
He’s so fucking sure of himself, and I can’t stand it.
I take a long sip, defiantly, and push him out of my mind.
He’s got no idea what it’s like to be part of my family, how failure isn’t an option and survival’s a miracle. How my father will make sure I pay if I don’t get him information on Iride, and fast. Broken bones, broken loyalty. The words echo again, and I push them out with another drink.
The door swings open, and a rush of cold air cuts through the bar.
A couple of guys look my way, sizing up whether to take a shot.
I make eye contact with one, and he wanders over.
Blond hair, clean-shaven. Probably twenty-one if he’s lucky.
He looks out of place in a college-kid way, and I think he might be fun to toy with.
I brace for a line that’s more eager than smooth.
“Buy you a drink?” he asks, leaning casually on the bar. His confidence amuses me.
“I never say no to free booze,” I reply, and he signals to the bartender.
“Double shots, whatever you’re having,” he says, settling onto the stool beside me. I expect more of a push, a flirt, but he’s just a quiet guy, earnest and trying.
The drinks arrive, and I hold up my glass.
“To late nights and bad decisions,” I say, knocking back the shot.
He grins and follows suit.
“You come here a lot?” he asks, his voice barely cutting through the noise.
“Used to,” I say. “Before I got married and boring.”
I try to ignore the twinge of guilt for being here. The thrill of being here anyway.
“Lucky guy,” he says, with the kind of easy sincerity that makes me feel reckless. He’s not threatening, and I could talk to him for hours and it wouldn’t matter. “So why are you drinking alone?”
“Am I alone?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
He laughs, and I see his guard drop. This isn’t what he expected either.
“Not anymore,” he says.
We drink, and I babble more than I should, about Dom and my father and the feeling of being trapped. About how fucking annoying men are and how much I’m enjoying defying them. He nods along, a good sport who just wants to keep me drinking.
Another round and my head spins in the best possible way. I think about Mami's song, and how music makes you feel even if you don’t want to. I think about my father, who won’t let me fail. About Dom, who won’t let me breathe. And for a moment, I don’t care.
The door slams open, and cold air floods in. A man fills the frame, and everything stops. It’s Dom, and he’s furious, dark and looming and impossible to ignore. His eyes find me like a laser, and I know what’s coming.
He crosses the bar in five long strides, radiating possession.
“You’re coming home. Now,” he says, his voice low and controlled.
It’s the voice that makes grown men fear him, the voice that never yells because it doesn’t have to.
I look up at him, defiantly, feeling the liquor give me courage.
“Or what?” I taunt, a little more slurred than I’d like. “Going to punish me?”
The kid beside me slides off his stool and backs away. “Hey man, I didn’t know—”
Dom ignores him, his focus all on me.
“Besiana,” he warns, each syllable a threat and a promise.
“Nice to see you too, husband,” I say, lifting my drink in salute.
I feel free and wild and not ready to give up this feeling, not yet.
“Let’s go,” he says, the order so tight it could snap.
He grabs my arm, and his grip is firm, claiming.
I yank free, playing at control.
“I’ll go where I want, when I want,” I say. “Take your ring and shove it.”
His eyes flash, revealing the storm beneath his surface. He’s not used to disobedience. Especially not from me.
“You’re wearing my ring,” he says, each word sharp as glass. “Act like it.”
I feel the stares of the bar, and something in me loves it. The drama. The danger. The way I can get to him like this.
“You’re not the boss of me, Dom,” I say, shoving him back. I know how to hurt a man like him, and I do it. “I’m not scared of you.”
Something in him snaps, and before I know it, I’m over his shoulder, staring at the floor. His arm is like steel around my legs, and I pound on his back in protest.
“Put me down, you asshole!” I scream, flailing as he carries me out.
“Keep it up, Besiana,” he says, his voice rough and promising punishment I almost want. “I dare you.”
He’s too strong, and I know I’ll pay for this later. My fists thump uselessly against him, but I don’t stop. I won’t let him win that easily. A crowd watches as he hauls me outside, and I catch my breath in the cold night air. He slaps my ass, a warning, and I yelp.
“Don’t push me,” he growls, possessive and hot. “Unless you want to find out how far I’ll go.”
We reach his car, and he throws open the door, tossing me inside.
I glare up at him, drunk and defiant, admiring him and hating him all at once.
He looms over me, the fury still in his eyes, and I can’t help it—I want to push him further, to see what happens when the perfect Rosetti control breaks.
But I know this much: it’s going to be explosive.