Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Vittoria
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Who is this?
But I already know. I knew the second I saw Marchetti's in that message. Knew it in my bones, in the way my pulse kicked up like a startled horse. There's only one person arrogant enough to text me unsolicited opinions about my dinner plans.
The real question isn't who.
It's how.
How does Dmitri Baganov know where I'm having dinner on Saturday? How does he know about James Rogers? How does he have my number in the first place?
I pull up my security protocols in my head, running through possibilities like code. Hacked phone? Unlikely—I built my own encryption. Someone in the house? Possible, but who would betray us to the Bratva? Surveillance on Rogers? More likely, but that still doesn't explain—
He's stalking me.
The thought lands with a thud.
It's the only answer that makes sense. He's been watching me. Tracking me. Probably since that night at Nexus, maybe before. The way he showed up at Pietro's office, the way he orchestrated those training sessions, the way he always seems to know exactly where I am and what I'm doing.
Dmitri Baganov has been stalking me.
I should be terrified. I should be running to Pietro right now, phone in hand, demanding protection from the Russian psychopath who's apparently made me his personal surveillance project.
Instead, something hot and dangerous curls low in my stomach.
Is there something wrong with me?
I hit send.
Who is this?
Three dots appear immediately. He was waiting.
You're not allowed to go out for dinner with someone else.
I stare at the screen.
Then I start laughing.
A full, loud, stomach-aching laugh that makes Amanda look up from her phone with raised eyebrows.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing." I wave her off, still shaking. "Just... nothing."
This is insane. This man—this absolute lunatic—just told me I'm not allowed to have dinner with another person. Like he has any say. Like he owns me. Like we're anything more than two people who shared one ill-advised kiss in a club a month ago.
The audacity. The sheer, unhinged audacity.
I type back, fingers flying.
What's not allowed is you making an offer to marry me without my consent. Stay in your lane, Baganov.
Send.
His response comes fast.
You knew it was me.
I pause.
Maybe it's time to stop pretending you don't want me, princess.
The pet name shouldn't do anything. It's condescending. My skin heats anyway.
Traitor, I think at my own body.
I don't even know you.
That's true. That's completely, objectively true. I know his name, his position, his reputation. I know he has beautiful eyes and a cold smile and hands that felt like fire on my waist.
But I don't know him.
His reply makes my breath catch.
For someone who claims not to know me, you've gotten closer than most people ever have.
I frown at the screen.
What's that supposed to mean?
You let my tongue inside your mouth, Vittoria. You moaned against my lips like you were ready to get fucked right there. Don't tell me you don't know me when you know exactly how I taste.
Heat floods my face.
My thighs press together involuntarily.
Damn him.
"Okay, you're blushing," Amanda says, sitting up. "Who are you texting?"
"No one."
"Liar." She reaches for my phone.
I yank it away, holding it against my chest like a shield. "Amanda. Drop it."
She studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowing. Then her face splits into a grin. "Oh my God. It's a guy."
"It's not—"
"It's totally a guy! Is it Rogers? Did he text you before your date? That's actually kind of cute, in a desperate way—"
"It's not Rogers." The words come out sharper than I intend.
Amanda's grin fades into something more serious. "Then who?"
I look down at my phone. At the words still glowing on the screen.
You know exactly how I taste.
"No one important," I lie.
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her face. But she's my best friend, and she knows when to push and when to let things go.
This is a letting go moment.
"Fine." She settles back against my pillows. "Keep your secrets, Tori. But when this blows up in your face—and it will—I want full details."
"It's not going to blow up."
"Mm-hmm."
I look back at my phone. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I should shut this down. I should block his number, tell Pietro about the stalking, and never think about Dmitri Baganov again. That's the smart play. The safe play.
But when have I ever played it safe?
One kiss doesn't mean I want you.
His response is immediate.
Keep telling yourself that, princess. I'll see you Saturday.
I frown.
I'm having dinner with Rogers on Saturday.
I know.
Three dots. Then:
Enjoy your meal. I'll be watching.
I sigh.
It comes out heavier than I mean it to.
Amanda's head snaps up.
"Okay, that's it." She tosses her phone aside. "You've been sighing and blushing and acting weird for the past ten minutes. Spill."
"It's nothing."
"Vittoria Maria Sartori."
The full name again. She's pulling out the big guns.
I look at my phone. At the conversation still glowing on the screen. At the words I'll be watching that should terrify me but instead make my stomach flip in ways I refuse to analyze.
I need to talk to someone about this.
Not Pietro—he'd start a war. Not Lorenzo—he'd worry himself sick. Not Nico—he'd go into cold calculation mode and probably have Dmitri assassinated by morning.
But Amanda? Amanda is safe. Amanda is normal. Amanda doesn't know the difference between a capo and a consigliere, and that's exactly what I need right now.
Someone outside this world to tell me I'm not completely insane.
"Fine." I hold out my phone. "But you have to promise not to scream."
She grabs it before I can change my mind.
Her eyes scan the screen.
"Holy fuck."
And then she screams.
"AMANDA!"
"Sorry! Sorry!" She's not sorry at all. Her eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open, and she's scrolling up through the conversation like it contains the secrets of the universe. "Oh my God. Oh my God. 'You know exactly how I taste'? Vittoria, what the actual—"
"I know."
"'I'll be watching'? That's—"
"Psychotic. I know."
"I was going to say hot as fuck, but sure, let's go with psychotic."
I stare at her. "Amanda. He's literally stalking me."
"Yeah, but like..." She gestures vaguely at the screen. "In a sexy way?"
"There's no sexy way to stalk someone!"
"Tell that to every romance novel I've ever read." She scrolls again, then stops. "Wait. Who is this?"
I take a breath. "His name is Dmitri. Dmitri Baganov."
Amanda goes very still.
Then her face splits into the biggest grin I've ever seen.
"The HOT one? The tall-dark-and-Russian one? The one you disappeared with and then refused to tell me anything about?"
"I didn't disappear with him. I just—"
"You absolutely disappeared with him. You were gone for like twenty minutes and came back with smeared lipstick and a look on your face like you'd just—"
"Amanda."
"—had the best kiss of your entire life, which, based on these texts, I'm guessing you did."
I grab a pillow and press it over my face. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." She yanks the pillow away. "Okay, let me see this guy. Because the way I remember him, he was like... devastatingly attractive. But it was dark, and I'd had a lot of champagne, so maybe I'm misremembering."
"You're not misremembering."
"Then why are you acting like this is a problem?"
"Because he's a psycho stalker?"
Amanda ignores me. She's already typing on her own phone, fingers flying across the screen. "Dmitri Baganov... Baganov... oh. Oh, wow."
She turns the screen toward me.
It's a photo from some society event. Dmitri in a black suit. He's not smiling. He looks like he's contemplating the murder of whoever's behind the camera.
He looks devastating.
"Tell me again how this is a problem," Amanda says.
"That photo doesn't show his personality."
"His personality where he says he'll be watching you? That personality?"
"Yes!"
"Babe." She finds another photo. This one's more candid. Dmitri stepping out of a black car, sunglasses on, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. "I think you've lost your fucking memory. Look at him. Look."
I look.
I've been trying not to. Trying to focus on the red flags, the warning signs, the fact that he's clearly been surveilling me for weeks. But looking at him now, at the broad shoulders and the dangerous grace and the way he carries himself like he owns every room he walks into—
You know exactly how I taste.
My face heats.
"See?" Amanda says triumphantly. "You're blushing again."
"I'm not—"
"You absolutely are." She swipes to another photo. "And this one. God, the hands on him. Those are 'I'll ruin your life but you'll thank me for it' hands."
"You're being ridiculous."
"I'm being realistic. This man—" she shakes her phone at me "—is literally obsessed with you. He's texting you about your dinner plans. He's telling you that you're not allowed to see other people. That's unhinged behavior, yes, but also? Kind of romantic?"
"It's not romantic. It's terrifying."
"Is it, though?" Amanda tilts her head. "Because you haven't blocked his number. You haven't told your brothers. You're sitting here texting him back instead of calling the cops—not that cops would help with mafia stuff, but you know what I mean."
I open my mouth.
Close it.
She has a point. A terrible, infuriating point.
If I really thought Dmitri was a threat, I would have told Pietro immediately. I would have blocked his number, reported his surveillance, demanded protection. That's what a smart person would do.
Instead, I'm hiding in my bedroom, texting him back, and showing the conversation to my best friend like it's gossip.
What does that say about me?
"I'm not interested in him," I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
Amanda just smiles. "Sure, babe. Whatever you say."
She hands me back my phone.
Dmitri's last message stares up at me.
I'll be watching.
And some broken, reckless part of me wants him to.
Dmitri