Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Iadjust my cufflinks, Italian silk sliding against my wrists. The black tuxedo fits perfectly—it should, for what I paid Armani. I check my reflection one more time, straightening my bow tie with practiced precision.
Tonight matters. The Rossi Foundation Gala draws every power player in the city—legitimate and otherwise. Appearances must be maintained, alliances reinforced, enemies watched. And for the first time, I'll present Zoe as my wife to everyone who matters.
I exit my bedroom, making my way toward the grand staircase. Lucrezia has been suspiciously quiet about their shopping expedition. When I asked what Zoe chose, my sister just smiled that mischievous smile and said, "You'll see."
I position myself at the bottom of the stairs, checking my watch. We need to leave in ten minutes.
A movement at the top of the stairs captures my attention, and I look up.
Holy fuck.
Zoe stands there, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
She wears an emerald green dress that clings to every curve, the fabric shimmering under the chandelier light.
The deep v-neckline plunges between her breasts, revealing just enough skin to make my throat go dry.
The dress splits high on her thigh, offering a glimpse of leg with each step she takes.
Her blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and her green eyes, accentuated by smoky makeup, lock with mine as she descends.
My cock stirs, blood rushing south with such force I have to shift my stance. She's supposed to look good—presentable—not make every filthy thought I've been suppressing crash through my mind all at once.
I clear my throat, forcing my expression into something more controlled. "That dress is..." I search for a word that won't reveal too much.
"Too much?" she asks, her eyebrow arching.
"Perfect," I say before I can stop myself. "For making every man in the room want to kill me tonight."
A slight flush colors her cheeks, but she maintains her composure. "Isn't that the point? To sell our relationship?"
I step closer. "You might be selling it too well, Zoe."
She tilts her chin up, defiant. "I thought you wanted convincing."
"I do." I offer my arm. "Let's give them something to talk about."
The sleek black Bentley purrs as we pull away from the mansion. Zoe sits beside me, her emerald dress shifting in the low light, a vision that makes it hard to look away. The silence between us feels charged, heavy with all the things we don't say.
I clear my throat. "There will be cameras tonight. Press."
She turns slightly. "I assumed as much."
"Not just social photographers. Real media." My fingers tap against my thigh. "The Rossi Foundation brings out everyone who matters in this city."
The passing streetlights cast shadows across her face, highlighting the elegant curve of her jawline. "You don't need to worry. I know how to smile for cameras."
"It's more than that," I say. "They'll be watching us. Looking for cracks, weaknesses."
She turns to face the window, her profile sharp against the darkness. "I understand the stakes, Damiano."
The car slows as we approach the venue, a historic building lit up against the night sky. Red carpet stretches from the curb, flanked by velvet ropes and flashing cameras. Security personnel in black suits stand at attention.
"We're here," I say unnecessarily.
As the driver opens my door, I exit first, buttoning my jacket. I turn and offer my hand to Zoe, helping her from the car. Her fingers are cold against mine, trembling slightly. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze.
Whether she appreciates the gesture or not, I couldn't tell. Her face remains carefully composed, a perfect mask of elegant poise.
I lean close, my lips nearly brushing her ear, catching the scent of her hair. "Remember," I murmur, low enough that only she can hear, "tonight you're madly in love with me. Make them believe it."
As we step onto the red carpet, camera flashes erupt around us. Zoe's fingers tighten around mine, and I pull her closer against my side.
"You look tense," I murmur, my lips barely moving as I maintain my smile. "Relax, lupacchiotta. They can smell fear."
To my surprise, she leans into me, her body softening against mine. A genuine laugh escapes her lips as she tilts her head toward me.
"Is that your version of reassurance?" she whispers back, her breath warm against my ear. "Telling me I smell like prey?"
I can't help the half-smile that forms on my lips. "I'm saying you're doing exactly what they expect."
She slides her hand up my arm. "Better?"
"Much." I place my hand on the small of her back. My fingers trail slightly lower than strictly necessary.
Her eyes flash to mine—a warning there, but also something else. Something that makes my blood run hotter.
We pause for photographers, and she turns into me, placing her palm against my chest. I look down at her with what I intend to be a practiced smile, but when her eyes meet mine, something shifts. Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, I forget it's all for show.
"They're eating this up," she says quietly, a secret smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
I lean down, brushing my lips against her temple. "Good."
As we make our way inside, I notice the stares—men tracking her movements, women whispering behind their hands. I keep her close, my hand possessive on her waist. She responds perfectly, leaning into my touch, her fingers occasionally brushing mine, sending jolts of electricity through my skin.
We pause at the entrance to the grand ballroom, and I feel her intake of breath at the opulence—crystal chandeliers casting golden light over the assembled elite, marble floors gleaming, champagne flowing freely.
"Impressed?" I ask.
She gives me a sidelong glance, heat in her eyes that seems too genuine for comfort. "Please. I've seen better."
I can't help the laugh that escapes me—real, unplanned. "You're a terrible liar, lupacchiotta."
She turns fully toward me, reaching up to straighten my already perfect bow tie. Her fingers linger at my collar, and the touch burns through me.
"Only when I want to be," she responds, voice low and intimate.
I swallow hard, caught off-guard by how convincing she is. How real this feels.
I pull Zoe closer as we move through the ballroom, navigating between New York's elite. The feel of her silk dress beneath my palm sends heat radiating up my arm.
When we reach a quieter corner, I lean down, my lips almost brushing her ear. "Is your body responding now? Like the other night?"
Her eyes meet mine, emerald fire dancing in their depths. A small, knowing smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
"I never had the chance to tell you," she says, voice barely above a whisper, "that maybe my body wasn't responding for you."
The implication hits me immediately. My fingers tighten reflexively on her waist.
"If I find out you had a man in your life when we arranged this marriage," I growl, pulling her even closer until our bodies press together, "now is the right timing to say it."
The crystal chandelier light catches in her hair as she tilts her head, studying me with calculated interest. Her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip—a gesture that draws my gaze like a magnet.
"And if I say that I had," she challenges, her voice steady despite our proximity, "what would you do?"
I stare into Zoe's eyes.
"I would make him disappear," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that only she can hear. The words aren't empty—they're a fucking promise. "No body. No trace. Just gone."
The crowd around us fades away. In this moment, there's only her defiance and my rising fury. The thought of another man touching her makes my blood boil.
"Anyone who touches what's mine doesn't get to live with that mistake."
Her pupils dilate, whether from fear or something darker, I can't tell. Her breath catches, the slight hitch audible even amid the orchestra and surrounding chatter.
I reach up, my calloused fingers capturing her face. My thumb brushes across her cheekbone, a gesture that's both tender and controlling. I tilt her chin up, forcing her to maintain eye contact.
"You think you can play with fire?" I ask, my voice rough with restraint. "Let me show you how badly you can get burned."
Before she can respond, I close the distance between us. My mouth claims hers, hard and demanding. The kiss isn't gentle—it's a brand, a warning, a fucking claim.
For a heartbeat, she freezes beneath my touch, her lips unmoving against mine. Then something changes. A small gasp escapes her, and suddenly she's kissing me back with equal intensity, her fingers gripping my lapels.
The taste of her floods my senses, drowning out everything else. Her lips are softer than I imagined, yielding yet demanding in their own right. Heat spreads through my body, pooling low in my stomach as I deepen the kiss.
His mouth captures mine, hard and demanding, and everything inside me screams to pull away. This is Damiano Feretti. The man I'm supposed to destroy.
But I don't pull away.
My body betrays me, responding to him with an intensity that steals my breath.
His lips move against mine, and heat rushes through me, pooling low in my belly.
I taste whiskey on his tongue as it brushes against mine.
My fingers grip his lapels, not to push him away but to steady myself against the wave of sensation washing over me.
I shouldn't be enjoying this.
My mind races even as my body melts against him. His hand slides to my lower back, pulling me closer until I feel the hard planes of his chest against me. The chandelier light spins overhead as my eyes flutter closed.
Maybe I can use this. Get closer to him. Lower his defenses.
Yes, that's it. This is tactical. Another way to infiltrate his life, his mind. If I can make him want me—truly want me—he'll be vulnerable. He'll share his secrets, let me into the inner workings of his empire.