6. Alessandro
ALESSANDRO
My car weaves through Long Island traffic and all I can think is how insane this all is.
I've got the remnants of the Bratva still causing problems, three distribution centers that need restructuring, and a meeting with the Albini family in two days.
Yet here I am, en route to inspect a fucking wedding venue.
Granted, I wouldn’t mind seeing Isabella again, which is irritating in and of itself.
I like women well enough, but I don’t like how I feel around her.
Intrigue and desire for a woman are distracting, and I can’t afford distractions.
Truth is, I haven't been able to stop thinking about Isabella since our meeting.
Those sea-green eyes.
That sharp tongue she tries so hard to control.
The way her composure slipped just enough to reveal something smoldering beneath the surface.
Something that the man in me wants to explore.
The car slows as we approach our destination. Of course, Marco would choose something so ostentatious. So public.
I step out onto the sidewalk, scanning the entrance for a glimpse of her.
My pulse quickens when I spot her standing beside the revolving doors, wrapped in a cream-colored dress that makes her look both innocent and wanton.
And for just a moment, I forget why I'm really here.
I tear my gaze away from Isabella and signal to my men.
Four of them immediately fan out, disappearing into the hotel's interior, while another three position themselves at strategic points outside.
"Benito, I want every exit mapped, every blind spot identified," I mutter to my head of security. "Check for secondary access points, service elevators, anything the Vitales might use."
"Already on it, Don Dante," he responds, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings.
This is what matters. Not the curve of Isabella's lips when she spots me, not the way her posture straightens. Focus, Dante. Security. Strategy. Survival.
I approach her, holding my breath as I kiss her on the cheek.
I break away, continuing to guard against her allure.
Yet somehow, I find myself walking through a gaudy reception hall, pretending to consider security angles while actually stealing glances at Isabella.
"The balcony overlooks the harbor." The venue coordinator gestures grandly. "Perfect for sunset photos."
I nod absently, calculating sight lines and exit routes out of professional necessity. That's what I tell myself.
"What do you think?" Isabella asks, those sea-green eyes turning to me expectantly.
What do I think? I think I'm losing my fucking mind.
I've rejected dozens of calls about cake flavors and floral arrangements, delegated everything to my staff.
This marriage is a business transaction, nothing more.
So why am I here, personally inspecting this place?
"The eastern windows are a vulnerability," I say, voice flat. "Too exposed."
Isabella tilts her head, studying me. "That's what you're concerned about? Not whether it's beautiful enough for our big day?"
Her sarcasm rips through my agitation. I find myself fighting back a smile. "Security comes before aesthetics."
"Of course it does." She sighs. “We could try a prison.”
“You think you can get your father into a prison?”
She shakes her head. “No. So we’ll have to settle for what normal people use to get married.”
“Normal people don’t have a future father-in-law who’d love nothing more than to put a bullet in my head during the ceremony."
"If that happens, I'll be sure to compliment the flowers at your funeral."
A laugh nearly escapes me before I catch it. “It’s your big day, Princess. You decide.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you?”
I swear I can see the gears turning in her brain as she concocts a retort. “Queen would be nice.”
“It’s your day, my Queen. You Decide.”
“Oh… I like that.” Her eyes alight with delight. I can’t stop the image of her looking so animated under me as I fuck her hard and fast from popping up in my mind.
I shake the image from my head and lean against a marble column, watching her examine the space.
“You know, you don’t have to come to these things,” she says, her gaze taking in the view of the harbor.
"I needed to check security measures personally."
"Is that the only reason?"
Fuck. Can she see through me? "What other reason would there be?”
"None at all," she says coolly. "It's just business, after all."
Just business. Exactly what I've been telling myself.
She wanders toward a garden terrace, and I follow like a fucking puppy.
"Why this place?" I ask. "Of all the venues in New York, you chose the most predictable."
She traces a finger along the stone railing. "Father wanted something that screams 'old money' to impress everyone. I simply nodded and agreed."
The way she delivers the line, flat, yet with an undercurrent of mockery, makes me pause.
"And what would you have chosen? If the decision were actually yours."
Isabella's eyes meet mine, surprise flickering across her features before her mask slips back into place. "Does it matter what I want?"
"Humor me."
She hesitates, then turns fully toward me. "Somewhere without two hundred guests pretending not to hate each other. Perhaps a vineyard upstate, or a small ceremony on a private property." Her lips quirk. "Somewhere without gold decor that screams 'compensating for something.'"
This time, I can’t stop the laugh. The sound seems to startle us both.
"You're not what I expected," I admit.
"A disappointment, I'm sure."
"The opposite, actually." I move closer, drawn by the challenge in her eyes. "Most women in your position would be simpering for my approval."
"I’m not most women, much to my father’s disappointment.”
There it is, a glimpse beneath the veneer. I find myself wanting more. "What was growing up as Marco's daughter like?"
She studies me, clearly trying to discern my angle. "Why do you care?"
"Maybe I want to know who I'm actually marrying."
"You're marrying a Vitale," she says. "Isn't that all that matters?"
"I thought so. Now, I'm not so sure."
She turns away, pretending to take in the blossoms on the tree.
She’s different this time, but I’m not sure if she’s trying to control her tongue or build a wall between us.
Did I say or do something to scare her from being herself?
"Learning about me won't make this arrangement any easier,” she says.
"Perhaps not." I step closer until mere inches separate us. "But it might make it more interesting."
Despite all my attempts to keep her from ensnaring me, I take in her scent.
It’s lovely, matching her dress, both innocent and wanton. I catch myself leaning closer.
"Interesting isn't what either of us signed up for," Isabella murmurs, but she doesn't step back.
My hand moves of its own accord, fingertips brushing a strand of hair from her face. The contact sends electricity through my veins.
"Plans change."
Her pupils dilate.
I trace the line of her jaw, emboldened by the fire I see in her eyes.
"This is a mistake," I say, even as my body betrays me by stepping closer.
"Then stop," she challenges.
My thumb grazes her lower lip, and I watch, transfixed, as she inhales sharply. The urge to taste her mouth is overwhelming.
I've spent my life maintaining perfect control.
I've stared down the barrels of guns without blinking, negotiated with killers without breaking a sweat.
Yet Isabella makes my hands unsteady with the need to possess her.
"Don Dante?" Benito’s voice cuts through the moment.
I step back from Isabella instantly, my hand dropping to my side. The loss of contact feels like being doused in ice water.
"Everything secure?" I ask.
"Kitchen's clear. Staff entrance needs additional coverage during the event." He delivers his report professionally, but there's something knowing in his expression that could get me in trouble.
Adriano would taunt me, but Marco might castrate me for openly lusting for his daughter.
"Ms. Vitale and I were discussing the guest list," I lie smoothly. "We'll need to limit access points."
Isabella turns back, face perfectly composed. "I'll speak with my father about reducing our numbers, if that helps with security concerns."
"That would be helpful."
Benito checks his watch. "We should go. You have that call with Stephano in an hour."
I nod curtly, grateful for the excuse. "Ms. Vitale, I'll have my assistant coordinate with yours about the next steps."
"Of course, Don Dante." She doesn't quite meet my eyes. "Thank you for taking time from your schedule for this."
The politeness feels wrong after what just nearly happened.
But she’s right to revert to social norms.
I’d be seen as taking something that isn’t mine yet if I touched her.
I bow my head slightly before turning away
"The west entrance needs at least four men," Benito says as our car cuts through traffic. "And the service corridors could be a problem if—"
His voice fades into background noise as my mind replays moments with Isabella.
The way her pupils dilated when I touched her face. The soft challenge in her voice.
The electricity between us seemed to charge the very air.
What the hell was I thinking?
She's not what I expected. I anticipated a spoiled princess.
Instead, I found someone with fire behind her eyes and a sharp tongue.
Someone who looks at me not with fear or reverence, but with assessment.
Like she's trying to figure me out as much as I'm trying to understand her.
It's infuriating. Intoxicating.
"—listening to anything I'm saying?" Benito’s question snaps me back.
"Four men at the west entrance," I repeat automatically. "Service corridors need surveillance."
He leans back, unconvinced. "I know it’s not my place, Don Dante, and I grant you, she’s a beautiful woman, but you need to remember who her father is.”
I might normally take offense at his talking so freely to me, but he’s not wrong.
Benito’s brother was killed in our last fight with the Bratva, the one in which Marco Vitale was supposed to be on our side, but clearly, he’d been working with the Bratva as well, playing both of us.
“I won’t forget.” I turn to look out the window, grappling with the irony of the situation.
I can't forget who she is, yet I keep seeing glimpses of who she might be beneath the Vitale name.
Every comment reveals a piece of the puzzle of who she is.
And despite everything, I want to solve her.
To understand what makes her different from the rest of her snake-pit family.
This fascination is dangerous.
It makes me vulnerable in ways I can't afford.
Yet as I try to focus on the Colombian deal, all I can think about are sea-green eyes and the taste of words left unspoken between us.
Later that night at home in my office, I loosen my tie and drop into my chair, dragging a hand across my face.
The contracts for tomorrow's meeting sit untouched on my desk.
They need my attention, but all I can focus on is Isabella.
I pour two fingers of whiskey as my mind replays every second of the moment on the terrace.
Her scent.
The way her pulse jumped beneath her skin when I touched her.
How I’d be willing to give up my next breath to taste her.
Fuck.
I knock back the drink and set the glass down.
I can't let Isabella Vitale get under my skin.
She's a means to an end, a way to bring peace, or at the very least, keep my enemy close.
Hell, she could become leverage against Marco.
I give up on work and make my way upstairs.
By the time I reach my bedroom, exhaustion has seeped in deep.
I strip down and slide between cool sheets, willing my mind to quiet.
Sleep comes, but she follows me there.
In my dream, she's waiting in my bed.
Moonlight spills across her bare skin, illuminating her curves.
Her dark hair fans across my pillows.
"You kept me waiting," dream-Isabella murmurs, her voice huskier.
I move toward her like a man possessed, drawn by some primal force I can't resist.
I’m so fucking hard, I might come just from looking at her.
I crawl over her, my hands sliding up impossibly smooth skin I know has never been touched.
She arches beneath me, wrapping her legs around my hips.
I capture her mouth with mine, finally tasting what I've been dreaming about. She's sweet and spicy at once.
Like honey infused with whiskey.
My hands explore every inch of her.
The swell of her tits, the hard, beaded tips of her nipples.
I lean over, sucking one into my mouth.
She moans, arches into me.
My hands move down her body, between her thighs.
"Alessandro," she gasps as my fingers slip inside her wet pussy.
The sound of my name on her lips makes my dick jump.
I push her thighs apart, and in a single hard thrust, I drive inside her body.
I wake with a start, heart racing, dick hard.
"Fuck," I growl, throwing off the sheets in frustration.
My cock throbs, demanding attention I refuse to give.
I’m not a horny teenage boy having a wet dream. I’m nothing if not controlled, even when it comes to sex.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to think of anything else.
Distribution numbers, security protocols, the Colombian deal.
But her face keeps sliding back into focus, her green eyes alight with delight, her plump red lips begging to be tasted.
Isabella fucking Vitale.
I've bedded countless women without a second thought.
Why is the daughter of my enemy haunting me like this?
Five minutes pass.
Ten.
The ache doesn't subside.
My dick is as hard and throbbing as it was when I woke from the dream. Traitor.
"God damn it," I mutter, finally wrapping my hand around myself.
I close my eyes and surrender to the fantasy.
Isabella's full lips parting, those clever eyes looking up at me as she takes me into her mouth.
I imagine her tongue swirling around the head, her hands gripping my thighs.
Would she be hesitant or bold?
Would she moan when I grip her hair?
My strokes quicken. In my mind, she's taking me deeper, her green eyes never leaving mine, challenging me even in submission.
I watch my dick disappear between those plump lips.
Swear I can feel the suck of her mouth as my hand squeezes around my cock, tighter, faster.
My release hits like a fucking freight train.
My cum shoots out, covering my chest, spurt after spurt as I draw the pleasure out.
As reality crashes back, I realize that when it comes to Isabella, I am completely, utterly fucked.