Chapter 10 Lucia #2
Giovanni looks up the moment I enter, as if he’s been tracking me by instinct rather than sight, and I don’t hesitate.
I cross the room and slide into his lap with a grace that feels earned rather than borrowed, my arm looping around his neck as though this were the most natural arrangement in the world.
The silence is immediate.
It ripples outward in concentric circles, touching every face in the room before settling into something taut and watchful.
I register the reactions in a blink: disapproval from the old guard who believe wives should be decorative and quiet; irritation from the ambitious men who resent that I’ve shifted the room’s gravity; open amusement from a handful of players with no skin in the Dragoni–Bellandi feud, men who enjoy chaos as long as it’s not aimed at them.
I don’t care.
I settle more comfortably against Giovanni, the leather beneath my thighs warm, his body a solid, unmissable anchor, and I meet the stares with a look that says I’m not confused about where I belong.
Because I’m not.
Conversation restarts with a careful scrape, voices smoothing themselves into place as if nothing has happened, as if I haven’t just violated a protocol some of these people treat like scripture.
A senator chuckles softly and makes a dry remark about modern marriages. A financier grins into his glass, eyes bright with interest.
Through the open doors connecting to the smaller living room, two women glare at me with undisguised contempt, their mouths tight, their posture stiff with the offence of it, wives who have learned the rules and resent anyone who bends them without consequence.
Salvatore Bellandi lifts his glass slightly, his tone smooth enough to pass for polite as his gaze settles on me without apology.
“I know a little about your history, young woman. So I hope you will indulge me as I offer my opinion that appearances matter,” he says. “They always have. There’s a way things are done in our world, and there’s a reason those traditions exist.”
I meet it calmly, shrug, light and dismissive, with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, the words pitched just polite enough to pass and just pointed enough to land.
“I agree that appearances matter,” I say evenly. “Which is why I’m standing or… well, sitting, exactly where I should be.”
A quiet beat passes.
“And I know a few of you love to throw about that know-your-place line. But here’s the thing, Signor Bellandi. I didn’t ask to be here as decoration,” I continue, my voice steady. “I’m here because I’m Giovanni’s wife. If that makes anyone uncomfortable, I suggest they examine why.”
He inclines his head to me, respectful but immovable. “Be careful before you spit on tradition, picciridda.”
“Traditions that survive scrutiny tend to be worth keeping,” I add. “The rest eventually change.”
Salvatore’s smile tightens.
And I know I’ve said exactly enough when Giovanni stiffens beneath me, his fingers digging into my waist in warning.
A few people shift in their seats. One man clears his throat. Isabella’s eyes flick to Giovanni, then back to me, measuring, recalculating.
When I turn to my husband, his eyes are on Bellandi, his expression carefully neutral. But in the next instant, they shift to me and I catch pride in his eyes.
Not the performative kind, not the careful mask he wears in public, but something warmer and far more dangerous, his gaze steady and approving as if I’ve just proven a theory he’s been nursing for a while.
And then I feel it.
His arousal, unmistakable and deliberate, a quiet warning and a promise braided together, as if my defiance has struck some private chord he doesn’t bother hiding. And as I’m grappling with this new, sizzling revelation, he rolls his hips subtly, imprinting his cock against my arse.
Heat blazes through me, pooling heavy and urgent between my thighs.
“You,” I murmur under my breath, shocked despite myself, “are a monster.”
He leans in, his voice rough and intimate against my ear. “Indeed. So don’t be surprised when you poke me and get the horns.”
The thrill that sparks inside me is treacherous and bright, a reminder that danger and desire have always shared a border with him.
The drawing room thins by degrees, conversations tapering into careful goodbyes and lingering glances that carry more calculation than courtesy.
Salvatore Bellandi does not rush to leave, much to my regret.
Hell, he’s one of the last ones to rise, smoothing the front of his jacket with unhurried precision, the gesture deliberate enough to draw the eye.
His gaze drifts to Giovanni first, then to me, pausing there just long enough to register as judgement rather than interest.
“This was… illuminating,” Salvatore says mildly. “Though I confess, I expected a different evening.”
Giovanni doesn’t move. “Did you?”
Salvatore’s mouth curves. “Sì. I thought you understood that when business requires clarity, certain… distractions are spared the room. Some women understand when to step away.”
The word some lands like a blade.
My spine stiffens. I open my mouth.
Giovanni’s hand tightens at my back.
“This… rigidity,” Giovanni replies evenly, “is exactly why some men struggle to keep pace.”
A flicker crosses Salvatore’s eyes. Annoyance, quickly banked. “You mistake endurance for progress,” he says. “The old ways exist for a reason. Structure. Order. My daughter, for instance, understands her place.”
Isabella, who’d drifted into the room with hips swaying as if they were under the influence of a hypnotist, lifts her chin slightly at that, her gaze sliding towards me with practised serenity, as though the blatant insult were beneath the dignity of a response.
“I know where my wife’s place is,” Giovanni says calmly as he rises, keeping me clamped against him. “Beside me.”
The temperature in the room drops.
Salvatore buttons his jacket. “A bold position. One that invites commentary.”
“Let them comment,” Giovanni replies. “I don’t govern by consensus.”
Isabella steps forward then, her smile polite and brittle. “I hope you’ll forgive us if we find this… arrangement unconventional.”
I draw breath to answer.
Giovanni steps forward first, angling his body subtly in front of mine without blocking me, the move protective rather than silencing.
“Unconventional is not the same as unstable,” he says pleasantly. “And tonight has been long. Buona notte.”
The dismissal is elegant. Final.
Salvatore studies him for a moment longer, then nods once. “We’ll speak again. Sooner than later, I suspect.”
“I’m sure,” Giovanni replies.
As they move towards the door, the old man pauses just long enough to add, “It looks like Queens breeds interesting instincts. Survival ones. Sometimes those instincts prove… inconvenient.”
I feel Giovanni’s hand press more firmly at my back. “And sometimes,” he says, unbothered, “they save lives.”
The Bellandis leave as they arrived. Measuring and unsatisfied.
The last guests follow, their farewells polite, their eyes lingering with the awareness that something unresolved has just been sharpened rather than settled.
When the doors finally close, the house exhales.
Giovanni’s hand settles fully at my back, possessive and steady, anchoring me to the reality I can no longer pretend I’m observing from the outside.
“Nothing has been resolved, has it?”
He grunts, moving me around until I’m in front of him. I look up into his dark eyes as his hands settle on my hips, then move up and down in a heated caress that snags my breath.
“No. But then no ground has been ceded either. If anything, the lines have been drawn deeper, clearer, more dangerous for having been tested in public.”
My heart catches for a different reason now. “Which means what, exactly?”
He drifts his mouth over mine, perhaps to distract, perhaps because he wants to. I suspect it’s both.
“Which means we’re still locked in a stalemate. But that’s only ever the moment before someone reaches for heavier weapons.”