Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vittoria
The knock on my door comes at eight in the morning. On a Saturday.
I groan into my pillow, contemplating murder. Whoever's interrupting my one day to sleep in better have an excellent reason or a death wish.
"Vittoria." Pietro's voice cuts through the wood. "We need to talk."
Fantastic.
I drag myself out of bed.
When I open the door, Pietro stands there in a crisp suit, already put together like he's been awake for hours. Knowing him, he probably has.
"This couldn't wait until noon?" I ask, stepping aside to let him in.
He doesn't sit. Never a good sign. Instead, he crosses his arms and faces me with that expression I've come to recognize—the one that says he's about to deliver news I won't like.
"James Rogers canceled."
I blink. Process. Then something loosens in my chest that I didn't realize was tight.
Thank God.
"Oh." I keep my voice neutral. "That's... unfortunate."
Pietro's eyes narrow. He knows me too well. "You're relieved."
"I'm concerned," I correct, moving to my desk chair to create distance. "What was so important that he'd cancel a dinner with the Sartori family?"
"Business emergency. Something about a shipment issue at one of their dealerships." Pietro waves his hand dismissively. "Doesn't matter. The point is, you're free tonight."
The way he says free makes my stomach drop.
"Pietro—"
"Dmitri Baganov is available."
I laugh. The sound comes out sharper than I intend. "No."
"Vittoria—"
"We can wait until James reschedules." I cross my arms, mirroring his stance. "There's no rush."
Pietro's jaw tightens. "You'll have to meet with Baganov eventually. Why not use the day you were already planning to evaluate a potential husband?"
"Because—" I stop myself before I say something I can't take back.
"Because what?"
I shake my head, trying a different approach. "Do you hear yourself right now? 'Use the day you were already planning to evaluate a potential husband.' Like I'm shopping for furniture."
"I hate this," he admits. "You think I don't know how this sounds?"
"Then don't make me do it."
"I can't." He runs a hand through his hair, a rare crack in his composure. "Mamma won't stop pushing. The alliance needs to happen. And you—"
"Need to be sold to the highest bidder?"
"Cazzo, Vittoria." His voice drops. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" I stand, anger building in my throat. "It's easy for you to say this is just business. You would never have been in this position."
Pietro goes very still.
"You're wrong."
"Am I? You're the Don. You choose who you marry. You choose—"
"I didn't choose anything." His words cut through mine like a blade.
"From the moment I took this title, I needed to find a wife.
A suitable wife. Someone who could handle this life without breaking.
" He pauses, and I see something raw in his expression.
"Nora just happened at the right moment. That's all."
I want to argue. Want to point out that at least he loves Nora. But the words die on my tongue.
"You're not a Donna," Pietro continues. "You're just... you had the bad luck of being born into this shit. Same as all of us."
The fight drains out of me. Because he's right. None of us chose this life. We were born into blood and secrets and obligations that stretch back generations.
I pause, a thought nagging at me.
"Wait." I narrow my eyes at Pietro. "How do you know Baganov is available tonight?"
Pietro's expression shifts. Just a fraction. But I catch it.
"He asked for a dinner two days ago."
Two days ago.
"I refused." Pietro holds up a hand before I can explode. "You already had plans with Rogers. It made sense to honor that commitment first."
"But now things have changed." The words taste bitter on my tongue.
"Now things have changed," he confirms.
I turn away from him, staring out my window at the gardens below.
Two days ago.
Dmitri asked for dinner two days ago. Before James canceled. Before this morning's convenient "business emergency" at the Rogers dealership.
Coincidence?
I almost laugh. There's no such thing as coincidence in our world. There's only strategy and power plays.
"Vittoria?" Pietro's voice cuts through my thoughts. "What's your answer?"
I turn back to face him. My brother. The Don. The man who carries the weight of our family on his shoulders and never complains. He didn't ask for this either.
"Yes."
Pietro blinks. "Yes?"
"Tell Baganov I'll have dinner with him tonight." I move toward my bedroom door and open it pointedly. "Now leave. I need to sleep."
He doesn't move immediately. Just studies me with those dark eyes that see too much. "You're up to something."
"I'm tired." I gesture at the hallway. "Go."
Pietro finally walks toward the door, then nods and leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I lean against it, pressing my forehead to the cool wood. My heart pounds in my chest. Not from fear, but from the adrenaline of knowing.
James Rogers didn't have a business emergency. James Rogers got removed from my path like a chess piece swept off the board.
Dmitri Baganov has been orchestrating this from the beginning.
Stalker. Manipulator. Obsessed.
I should tell Pietro everything. I should demand that the Bratva alliance be dissolved and Dmitri Baganov be banned from ever contacting me again.
Instead, I smile.
Because here's the thing about chess. You can't win if you don't know you're playing. And Dmitri made one critical mistake.
He let me see the board.
I push off the door and walk to my closet. Sleep can wait. I have planning to do.
He wants dinner? Oh, he'll get dinner.
The best dinner of his entire life.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find Amanda's name. She answers on the second ring, her voice groggy.
"It's eight in the morning on a Saturday. Someone better be dead."
"I need your help."
A pause. Then rustling, like she's sitting up in bed. "I'm listening."
"I have a date tonight. With the Russian."
"Fuck." Amanda's voice sharpens with interest. "The hot stalker?"
"The hot stalker," I confirm. "And I need to look like I'm not trying while simultaneously looking like the best thing he's ever seen in his life."
"That's my specialty." I can hear her grin through the phone. "What's the play?"
I catch my reflection in the mirror. Messy hair. Sleep-rumpled pajamas. Dark circles under my eyes from staying up too late thinking about a man I shouldn't want.
"He thinks he's running this game," I tell her. "He's been pulling strings, watching me, manipulating situations to get close to me."
"And?"
"And tonight, I'm going to show him what happens when someone tries to play a Sartori." I smile at my reflection. "He wants me? Fine. But he's going to work for it."
Amanda laughs, delighted. "I'll be there in an hour. Don't shower yet—I'm bringing some new hair products."
She hangs up before I can respond.
I toss my phone on the bed and stretch, energy humming through my veins.
Dmitri Baganov wants to play games?
Game on.
Dmitri
The phone vibrates against the polished mahogany of my desk.
Pietro Sartori's name flashes across the screen, and I let it ring twice before answering. Patience. Control. These are the weapons that separate men who lead from men who beg.
"Baganov." I keep my voice neutral, bored even, as if I haven't spent the last forty-eight hours orchestrating every piece on this chessboard.
"Dmitri." Pietro's tone carries the weight of a man who'd rather be doing anything else. "James Rogers had to cancel his dinner with my sister. Something about a family emergency."
Emergency. I almost smile. The photographs Igor obtained—Rogers with his hand up a waitress's skirt at a hotel bar three nights ago—made their way to his fiancée this morning. A fiancée the Sartoris apparently didn't know existed.
"That's unfortunate," I say.
"If you're still available, Vittoria could meet you instead. Tonight."
Could. As if there's any question. As if I haven't been counting the hours since I sent that text about Marchetti's.
"I'll book a private table at Celestine." The words come out smooth, unhurried. "Nine o'clock work?"
A pause. I hear Pietro exhale through his nose. "Her driver will bring her. She'll have two of our men with her."
"Of course."
Another pause, heavier this time. Pietro starts to speak, stops. The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut.
I know what he wants to say. Touch my sister and I'll gut you. Hurt her and there won't be enough pieces of you left to bury. Standard protective brother threats. I've made similar ones about Karolina and Natalia.
But Pietro Sartori is a strategist. He knows threatening the heir to the Chicago Bratva—a man whose alliance he needs—would be stupid. And whatever else Pietro might be, he's not stupid.
"I'll respect your sister," I say, saving him from the awkwardness. "I'm not going to hurt her. I have sisters too."
The tension bleeds out of the line. "Good. We'll talk after."
He hangs up.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling of my office, letting the satisfaction roll through me like expensive vodka.
Respect.
Yes. I'll respect her.
I'll respect the curve of her neck when she tilts her head to look up at me. I'll respect the fire in those dark eyes when she challenges me, thinking she can win. I'll respect every sharp word that falls from her lips, every defiant tilt of her chin.
I'll respect her right into my bed.
The kind of respect I have in mind isn't the kind most people think of. It's not polite distance or careful courtesy. It's the respect a wolf shows to its mate—absolute, consuming, total.
I pull up Celestine's private number and make the reservation. The hostess doesn't ask questions when I request their most secluded table, the one in the corner where the city lights stretch out like scattered diamonds and the staff knows to disappear unless summoned.
Then I call Igor.
"Da?"
"Tonight. Celestine. Nine o'clock." I loosen my tie, already calculating what I'll wear. Dark suit. The one that fits like armor. "I want eyes on Rogers. Make sure his family emergency keeps him occupied for the foreseeable future."
"The fiancée situation is... escalating." Igor sounds amused. "She threw his golf clubs into the pool."
"Good. Keep it escalating."
I hang up and toss the phone onto the desk.
All I think about is her.
Vittoria.
The way she looked that night at Nexus. That black dress painted onto curves that made my hands itch. Dark hair spilling over bare shoulders. Those eyes—God, those fucking eyes—cutting through me like she could see every filthy thought in my head.
She probably could.
My cock stirs at the memory. The taste of her mouth. The soft gasp she made when I kissed her, like she hadn't expected to want it that badly. Like she hated herself for melting against me.
I shift in my chair, suddenly uncomfortable. The leather creaks.
Tonight.
Hours from now, I'll sit across from her. Watch candlelight play across her skin. Listen to that sharp tongue carve me into pieces while I imagine all the ways I could silence it.
My hand drifts to my thigh. Stops. This is stupid. I'm not some teenage boy who can't control himself.
But my dick doesn't care about control. It's already straining against my zipper, throbbing with the kind of need that makes rational thought evaporate.
I think about her hands. Small, delicate, always moving when she talks. Those fingers flying across keyboards, creating security systems that would make government agencies weep. What would those hands feel like wrapped around my cock?
Fuck.
I palm myself through my trousers. Just pressure. Just enough to take the edge off.
It doesn't help.
The image shifts. Vittoria on her knees in this office, looking up at me with those defiant eyes while her mouth—
I unzip my pants. The relief is immediate, my cock springing free, already leaking at the tip. I wrap my fist around the shaft and squeeze.
This is pathetic, some distant part of my brain whispers. You're the heir to the Chicago Bratva.
I stroke slowly, letting the fantasy build. Vittoria spread across my desk, papers scattering to the floor. Her dress bunched around her waist. Those long legs wrapped around me as I sink into her, watching her face twist with pleasure she doesn't want to feel.
My grip tightens. Faster now.
She'd fight me at first. That's what makes it so fucking perfect. She'd dig her nails into my shoulders and tell me she hates me, even as her pussy clenches around my cock. Even as she begs for more.
I imagine the sounds she'd make.
"Blyad'," I mutter, my hips jerking.
I think about bending her over this chair. Fisting that dark hair while I fuck her from behind. Making her watch our reflection in the window—the princess and the monster, tangled together while the city burns below.
The pressure builds at the base of my spine. My balls tighten.
Tonight.
Tonight I'll have to sit across from her and pretend I'm civilized. Pretend I don't want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her to my bed. Pretend the only thing I'm interested in is a business alliance.
My hand flies faster. Rougher. I'm close now, that familiar tension coiling—
I picture her face when she comes. The way her control would shatter. The way she'd look at me afterward, stunned and furious and hungry.
The orgasm tears through me. I grunt, spilling over my fist, my whole body shuddering with release. For a moment, everything goes white.
Then reality seeps back in.
I'm sitting in my office with cum on my hand and a dinner reservation in a few hours.
Pathetic, that voice whispers again.
But I'm smiling as I clean myself up. Because tonight won't be about patience or control or careful strategy. Tonight is about showing Vittoria Sartori exactly what she's been running from.
And exactly what she's been running toward.
It won't be easy. Every instinct screams at me to claim her. To mark her. To make it so fucking clear she belongs to me that no James Rogers or anyone else would ever dare look at her again.
But I've waited this long.
I can wait a few more hours.
Maybe.