Chapter 8 #3
I continue making rounds, shaking hands with men who would rather see me behind bars but who smile and offer congratulations anyway. Men who take my money under the table while publicly denouncing the very existence of organized crime. Hypocrites, all of them.
Mayor Wilson approaches next, flanked by his security detail who hover at a respectful distance.
"Damiano," he greets me warmly, as though we're old friends. The fucking audacity. "What a spectacular wedding. The city's finest turned out for you today."
"Mayor." I accept his handshake, keeping my smile in check. "I appreciate you taking time from your busy schedule."
"I wouldn't miss it," he replies, lowering his voice.
I resist the urge to sneer at his platitudes. This man has been trying to shut down three of my legitimate businesses for months while simultaneously accepting campaign contributions funneled through my shell corporations.
"I should return to my bride." I say.
I make my way back across the room toward Zoe. She's still with Lucrezia, though I notice her eyes following my movements.
The orchestra transitions to a new piece as I approach. Several guests turn in anticipation, and I realize the MC must have announced our first dance. Fucking wedding traditions.
I reach Zoe, extending my hand toward her. "It's time for our dance, wife."
"Of course, husband," she replies, her voice honey-sweet for our audience.
I lead her to the center of the dance floor as guests form a circle around us. The spotlight catches in her hair, turning it to liquid gold. The orchestra begins playing a slow waltz—Strauss, I think. Not my choice, but appropriate for the occasion.
I place my hand on her waist, feeling her stiffen slightly at my touch. "Relax," I murmur. "Everyone's watching."
She steps closer, allowing me to guide her into the proper frame. "I know how to dance, Feretti."
"Good. Then follow my lead."
We move together, and I'm surprised at how easily she mirrors my steps. Her body gradually relaxes in my hold as we find our rhythm.
"You're better at this than I expected," she says quietly.
"You think mafia dons don't learn to dance?" I ask, spinning her out and back into my arms. The crowd applauds the move.
"I didn't picture you taking dance lessons."
"My mother insisted. Said every gentleman needs to know how to waltz." I tighten my grip slightly as we turn. "Though I doubt she imagined I'd be dancing with someone plotting my downfall."
The music swells, and I guide her through another series of turns. Her dress rustles against the floor, her perfume teasing my senses. From the outside, we must look like the perfect couple—the powerful don and his beautiful bride.
"They're all buying it," she whispers, her breath warm against my neck.
"That's the point," I reply, scanning the room as we dance. Byron watches us. Enzo's expression remains skeptical. Lucrezia seems genuinely pleased.
"Your sister is very kind," Zoe says, following my gaze.
"She sees the best in people. Even when it isn't there."
I spin Zoe into a tight turn, pulling her closer than necessary when she returns to my arms. Her green eyes flash with annoyance.
"You're holding me too tight," she whispers through clenched teeth.
"Am I?" I loosen my grip slightly, trailing my fingers down her spine. "Better?"
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Doing what?" I ask innocently, guiding her through another series of steps.
The music shifts tempo, and I adjust our movements accordingly, adding more complex patterns. Zoe follows flawlessly, matching me step for step. Impressive. I decide to test her limits, executing a sudden dip without warning.
She gasps but recovers instantly, arching her back with perfect form. When I pull her up, her face is inches from mine.
"Warn me next time," she hisses.
"Where's the fun in that?" I smirk, resuming our dance. "Besides, a good partner anticipates."
"And a good husband doesn't try to make his wife look foolish."
"Is that what I'm doing? I thought I was showing off my wife's exceptional abilities."
I spin Zoe outward, then pull her back against my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist. Her back presses against me fully, and I feel her breath catch.
"What are you doing?" she whispers.
"Dancing with my wife," I answer, my lips close to her ear. "Is that a problem?"
She turns in my arms with unexpected grace, facing me again. "Not at all, husband." There's a challenging glint in her eyes now. "But I think you're holding back."
Without warning, she steps closer, eliminating most of the space between us. Her hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, her touch light but deliberate.
"Two can play this game, Feretti," she says softly.
I raise an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by her boldness. "The kitten has claws."
"I'm not a kitten." She holds my gaze steadily. "And you'd be wise to remember that."
I laugh, low and quiet. "No, not a kitten. A little wolf."
The music builds toward its finale, and I lead her through the last sequence of steps. When the final notes sound, I dip her deeply, one hand supporting her back, the other holding hers outward in perfect form.
The crowd erupts in applause. I hold her there a moment longer than necessary, studying her face—flushed from the dance, eyes bright with defiance.
"Nicely done, lupacchiotta," I murmur as I bring her upright. "You're full of surprises."
She straightens her dress with practiced composure. "You haven't seen anything yet."
I lead Zoe back to our table as the applause dies down. She's still holding my hand, maintaining our charade for the audience, but I feel her grip loosen the moment we're out of the spotlight.
"I need to freshen up," she says, smoothing her dress. "Excuse me."
I watch as she weaves through the crowd toward the restrooms, the white trail of her gown flowing behind her.
"She's good," Lucrezia says, appearing beside me with two champagne flutes. She offers me one. "Very convincing. If I didn't know better, I might believe she's actually happy to be Mrs. Feretti."
I take the glass. "That's the point."
Lucrezia sips her champagne, studying me over the rim. "She's beautiful. I'll give you that."
"Beauty means nothing in our world."
"True." She tilts her head. "But I saw the way you were looking at her during that dance."
I narrow my eyes. "And how exactly was I looking at her?"
"Like you've forgotten this is just business." She smirks. "Like maybe you're actually enjoying having her in your arms."
"Don't start, Lucrezia."
"What? I'm just making an observation." She shrugs innocently. "It's been a long time since you've had a woman in your life. A real one—"
"Enough." My tone sharpens. "This marriage is strategy, nothing more."
"If you say so." She doesn't look convinced. "But strategy or not, she's your wife now. Maybe you should try to make the best of it."
I drain my champagne, irritated by her implications. "I don't need relationship advice from my little sister."
"Someone has to give it to you." She pats my arm. "You've been alone too long, fratello."
Before I can respond, something catches my eye across the room. Zoe has returned from the restroom, but she's not alone. She's standing near one of the pillars, laughing with a man I don't recognize. He's leaning toward her, saying something that makes her smile wider than I've seen all day.
I feel my jaw tighten. "Who the fuck is that?"
Lucrezia follows my gaze. "I don't know. Not one of our guests."
I watch as the stranger places a familiar hand on Zoe's arm, letting it linger there. She doesn't pull away.
"Excuse me," I mutter, setting down my glass.
I move through the crowd, my eyes fixed on them. As I get closer, I can see the man better—tall, perhaps in his early thirties. Zoe's saying something to him, her expression animated in a way I haven't seen yet.
My blood heats as I approach. Whoever this prick is, he's getting entirely too comfortable with her.
Getting closer, I catch fragments of their conversation. Something about Florence and a mishap at the Uffizi Gallery. Her hand touches his arm now, a casual gesture that looks too fucking comfortable.
"...completely mortified," the man says, "but apparently it happens more often than you'd think."
Zoe laughs again, her head tilting back slightly, exposing the elegant line of her throat. "I can't believe I never heard this story before."
I approach from behind her, and the man notices me first. His smile falters for just a second before he recovers, straightening his posture.
Zoe senses my presence and turns. When she sees me, her expression shifts—not to fear or caution, but to something playful, almost challenging. A glint in her eyes I don't recognize. Don't like.
"Ah, there you are," she says, her voice light. "I was just catching up with an old friend."
The man extends his hand. "Diego Navarro. Congratulations on your marriage."
I ignore his hand. "I was wandering what's so funny."
Diego's hand slowly drops back to his side. An awkward silence falls between us.
"Diego was telling me about when we were in Florence," Zoe explains, that playful look still in her eyes. "He studied abroad the same semester I did and he works for my father."
"Is that right?" I ask.
Diego nods, clearly reading the danger in my tone. "Yes, sir. Security detail."
"Security?" I raise an eyebrow. "Interesting. I don't recall seeing you at any of our meetings."
"I generally handle Mr. Easton's personal matters," Diego says, choosing his words carefully.
"Including my wife's?"
Diego clears his throat. "I've known Zoe for years. We're old friends. I was simply congratulating her."
I smile, the kind that never reaches my eyes. "Well, now you've done that. And this is our wedding reception, so you'll understand if I want to spend time with my wife."