Chapter 17 - Ana
The red dress slides over my skin like shame.
Three days since I betrayed everything. Three days since I spread my legs for Papa's killer on his mahogany desk. Three days, and I still feel the phantom ache of him inside me, a hollowness that makes me want to claw my skin off.
I can't look at myself in the mirror. Every time I try, I see her: the whore who begged for more, who screamed his name like a prayer. My fingers trace the bruises on my hips, purple-green marks where his hands gripped too hard. Evidence of my betrayal painted on my skin like accusations.
This is the same dress I chose when Maria took me shopping, when I still thought I could keep my distance.
When I was just a girl playing at revenge, not a woman who knew how it felt to come apart in her enemy's hands.
The neckline dips low enough to show the fading marks on my throat where he sucked too hard.
The fabric whispers with each movement, reminding me how it felt when he bunched it around my waist.
"Papa, forgive me," I sign to the mirror, the movements violent enough to hurt my wrists, each gesture a self-inflicted wound.
The bedroom door opens without warning. Dante enters, already dressed in one of his dark suits, collar high to hide the scars I've tasted.
The sight of him makes my stomach clench with self-loathing and something worse: want.
Even now, hating myself, hating him, my traitorous body responds to his presence.
Heat pools shamefully between my thighs, and I want to die from the betrayal of it.
He sets a folded note on the dresser without looking at me directly. Car in twenty minutes. First public appearance. Don't embarrass the family.
Then he's gone, but his cologne lingers. Cigarettes and sandalwood. The scent makes my pussy clench with unwanted memory. Three days since he taught me what my body could do, and I hate that I still crave it.
I zip the dress with trembling fingers. The red silk clings in all the places he's marked, a second skin that feels like confession. The fabric catches on my bruised hip, and I bite back a whimper. Each ache is a reminder of how thoroughly I've betrayed Papa's memory.
The car feels like a coffin lined in leather.
I press myself against the far door, as far from Dante as the backseat allows. It might as well be nothing. The space between us thrums with everything we've done, everything I let him do. My body remembers too well: the weight of him, the stretch, the way he made me come until I sobbed.
"Beautiful evening, Mr. and Mrs. Rosetti," the driver says, glancing in the mirror with a smile. "You two make such a perfect couple."
Mrs. Rosetti. The name makes me sick. Or maybe that's just my body's response to sitting this close to him, remembering how it felt when he was inside me, knowing I want it again despite everything.
Dante's hands move in the space between us, subtle enough the driver won't notice: "You look beautiful."
The words make bile rise in my throat. Beautiful. As if I'm not sitting here drowning in self-hatred.
"I look like a whore," I sign back, each movement sharp enough to cut, aggressive enough to draw blood if signs could wound.
His jaw tightens, the only sign my words affect him. Then his hands move again, deliberate and possessive: "My whore."
The words brand themselves into my skin, and I hate how wetness floods between my thighs.
The claim makes me want to climb across the seat and either stab him or kiss him.
Maybe both. My nails dig into my palms hard enough to leave crescents, the pain barely registering against the war raging in my body.
"The restaurant has the best view in Chicago," the driver continues, oblivious. "Very romantic for a young couple."
Romantic. As if this is a date instead of a performance. As if I'm not sitting here drowning in the memory of how thoroughly he ruined me for anyone else.
I force myself to stare out the window, watching Chicago blur past. Anywhere but at him. But I can feel his gaze on me, heavy as hands, and my traitorous body responds with wetness I hate myself for.
The restaurant gleams with dangerous money, all crystal and candlelight and men who kill with handshakes.
"Mr. Rosetti! Mrs. Rosetti! The mafia princess bride!
" Photographers cluster near the entrance, their cameras capturing me on my husband's arm.
I arrange my face into the smile I learned from watching Papa's associates' wives: beautiful and empty, giving nothing away.
The performance of being a mafia wife comes easier than it should.
Dante's hand burns through the silk at my lower back, guiding me through the crowd.
When a man's gaze lingers too long on my dress, on the curves it reveals, Dante's fingers press harder, possessive.
His body shifts subtly, blocking the man's view, and I hate that his protection makes me feel safer.
I hate more that I naturally move with him, our bodies finding a rhythm before my self-disgust catches up.
Other wives watch from their tables as we pass.
Some with pity: they know what it means to marry into this life.
Others with envy: I'm young, my husband is powerful, and they don't know our marriage bed is a battlefield.
One older woman whispers to her companion, her eyes tracking the bruise partially visible on my shoulder. She knows exactly how I got it.
The private dining room holds five men in expensive suits, their eyes tracking us with predatory interest. I recognize the look from Papa's associates. These are the men who move shipments through territories, who discuss murder over wine.
"Dante," the oldest one says, standing. "And the Moretti princess. Strange bedfellows, a Rosetti and a Moretti. Your father must be spinning in his grave."
The casual cruelty of it makes me flinch. Dante's thumb strokes my spine. Warning or comfort, I can't tell anymore.
We're seated side by side, business demands it. His thigh presses against mine under the table, and I hate how my body responds, how awareness of him drowns out everything else.
They discuss territories and shipments while I pretend to follow their rapid English.
But I understand more now, enough to recognize when they mention Papa's old routes through the Midwest. "Word is Detroit's been making moves," one says, voice lowered.
"That hothead Carlo's been pushing boundaries since his cousin got out of prison. "
The wine tastes like copper, or maybe that's just blood from biting my tongue.
Around us, crystal glasses clink like warning bells, and I can't force down the perfectly plated food.
My bruised hip throbs against the chair, each shift reminding me how I got these marks, reminding me whose hands left them there.
"A love match, I hear?" one man leers, eyes sliding over me like oil. His gaze catches on my neck, probably seeing the faded marks Dante left there.
Dante writes a note in large capitals on his notepad and holds it up for everyone to see: Perfect match.
My English is getting better every day, the words rolling around my mouth more comfortably, filtering in through my ears like water instead of syrup. But even so, I think I must have misunderstood his note.
Under the table, his hand finds my thigh through the silk. The touch burns, and my body floods with the arousal I hate myself for feeling. I know exactly what this is: my pussy getting wet for the man who killed Papa. The betrayal of my body understanding pleasure while my heart screams in protest.
When they mention Papa's routes through Detroit, memory flashes: Papa at his desk, marking maps with red ink, planning shipments that would never arrive. Now these men carve up his empire while I sit here in a red dress, my body still aching from how thoroughly his killer claimed me.
His fingers trace patterns on my thigh while the men discuss business, each touch making me wetter despite my self-loathing.
I grab his wrist under the table, nails digging in.
Stop, please stop, I can't do this. But he turns the grip smoothly, suddenly he's holding my wrist instead, thumb pressing against my pulse point where it races.
He knows. Knows my body is betraying me, knows I'm getting wet for him despite the hatred burning in my chest.
My free hand moves toward the fork beside my plate. I'm reaching for the weapon rather than admit my traitorous thighs are parting despite every mental scream to close them. The metal handle is cool against my fingers, a promise of violence to counter this sick need.
"These Detroit rumors are concerning," someone says, but the words blur as Dante's thumb strokes my pulse, feeling how my heart pounds for him.
I clutch the fork handle, then his wrist again, torn between violence and surrender.
Three days ago, I lost my virginity to this man.
Now I'm sitting at dinner with his hand between my thighs, my body betraying me with every breath.
Papa didn't just die that night. I'm killing his memory every moment I don't slide this fork between Dante's ribs.
The moment to choose arrives with shattering glass.
The windows explode inward in a shower of crystal and chaos.
"For Carlo!" The shout comes with gunfire, bullets tearing through the air where our heads were seconds ago.
Dante moves faster than thought, his body covering mine as we hit the floor. Glass rains down on his back, his shoulders taking the impact meant for me. I should grab my knife now, should slide it between his ribs while he's pressed against me, protective and vulnerable.
Instead, my hands clutch his jacket, pulling him closer as bullets destroy the room above us. Some instinct deeper than revenge makes me seek his protection, and the betrayal of it burns worse than the glass cutting my shoulder.
"Stay down," he signs against my ribs, his body a shield between me and whatever hell just arrived.
"Like hell," I say his chest, even as I press closer.
"Detroit soldiers," someone screams. "It's Detroit!"
More windows shatter. The crystal chandelier crashes down, sending diamonds of glass across the floor. I count muzzle flashes: ten, twelve, more pushing through the destroyed windows. These aren't random thugs. These are soldiers, trained and coordinated, here for blood.
"For Carlo!" they shout again, and now I understand. This is revenge for whatever rumors we just heard, Detroit making their move, that hothead Carlo they mentioned finally pushing too far.
A bullet splits the table above us, sending splinters into my exposed shoulder. Dante shifts, covering me more completely, his hand finding mine in the chaos. Not romantic, practical. If we get separated in this hell, if one of us dies…
But I'm already holding on, having grabbed his hand without thinking, my body seeking him before my mind could stop it. Even now, even in this chaos, I'm turning to my enemy for safety.
Gunfire erupts from our side now, security responding. The air fills with smoke and screaming and the copper scent of blood. Someone crashes into the overturned table, blood spreading beneath them, and I can't tell if they're ours or theirs.
Dante's body is a cage of protection around me, taking whatever comes, and I hate him for it. Hate him for protecting me. Hate myself more for clutching him closer, for the traitor thought that whispers: Not him. Don't let them take him.
Because if anyone's going to kill Dante Rosetti, it should be me.
Not Detroit.
Me.