Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vittoria
God, he's beautiful.
I hate that my brain goes there first. Here's a man who just casually promised to murder anyone else who tries to marry me, and my first coherent thought is about his cheekbones. The sharp cut of his jaw. Those pale eyes that look like winter storms trapped in glass.
Amanda was right. I needed to see him again. Because memory didn't do him justice.
What he said should terrify me. It doesn't. Maybe that makes me broken. Maybe I've been surrounded by violence so long that threats of death roll off me like water. Or maybe, and this is the part that has heat pooling low in my belly, it's because of how he said it.
He wants me. The hunger in his voice when he made that promise wasn't about business or alliances. It was raw.
But he hasn't touched me. Not once tonight. Not even when I walked in wearing this dress that barely qualifies as clothing. He kissed my hand like we're in some nineteenth-century novel, and then he sat across from me like a gentleman.
A gentleman who just threatened murder over dinner.
Christ, Vittoria. Get it together.
"What happened to James?" I ask, keeping my voice steady. "His sudden 'family emergency' seems conveniently timed."
Dmitri's lips curve. "Rogers was ready to fuck a waitress at his hotel bar. I had someone take photographs."
I blink. "And?"
"I sent them to his fiancée."
"His—" I stop. Process. "James Rogers has a fiancée?"
"Secret one. He planned to marry you for your family connections while keeping her waiting somewhere quiet. A nice apartment in Manhattan. Monthly allowance. The usual arrangement men like him make."
My brothers didn't know. They would have told me if they'd found a hidden fiancée. Which means Dmitri found something they missed.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat. I swallow it down, but barely.
"You seem amused," Dmitri observes.
"I'm imagining James's face when those photos arrived." I reach for my wine glass.
So he eliminated the competition. Not with violence—with information. With strategy.
That's almost worse. That means he's smart.
I set down my glass. "This is dinner. Nothing more."
"I'm aware."
"I won't decide tonight if I'm marrying you." The words come out harder than I intended. Good. Let him hear the steel. "I have rules."
"What rules?" His voice drops, interested.
"Three months."
"Three months," he repeats.
"I need to spend time with any candidate before I agree to marry him. Get to know him. See if I can actually tolerate sharing a life with someone." I meet his gaze directly. "I'll do this with every candidate. Not just you."
"Three months of what, exactly?"
"Dates. Conversations. Seeing how you handle situations." I lean back in my chair, deliberately casual. "Seeing if you can go five minutes without threatening to kill someone."
"That seems unlikely."
Was that a joke? His expression gives nothing away, but there's something in his eyes. A glint of dark humor.
"Then you'll fail the test," I say sweetly.
"I don't fail."
"Everyone fails eventually."
He studies me for a long moment. The candlelight catches the silver threading through his dark hair, the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Up close, he looks exactly like what he is: a man built for violence who learned to wear expensive suits.
"Three months," he says finally. "And during these three months, you'll be evaluating other men as well?"
"That's the arrangement."
His fingers drum once on the tablecloth. A single, controlled tap. "I have a counter-proposal."
"This isn't a negotiation."
"Everything is a negotiation." He leans forward, forearms resting on the table. "Three months. I'll follow your rules. But during that time, you evaluate only me."
"That defeats the purpose—"
"If I fail your tests, you can pursue other candidates afterward. But give me three months first." His voice is low, certain. "If I can't convince you in ninety days, I'll withdraw my proposal myself."
I should say no. This is manipulation again—him trying to control the situation, limit my options, box me into a corner.
But there's a hint of what looks almost like desperation in his eyes, quickly hidden.
"Why?" I ask. "Why does it matter if I see other men during the evaluation?"
"Because I don't share."
The words hang between us. Simple. Absolute. Not a threat this time—just truth.
He doesn't share.
My pulse kicks up. I ignore it.
"I'll consider your counter-proposal," I say. "But I'm not agreeing to anything tonight."
"Fair enough." He signals the waiter. "Then let's order. You'll need energy for the next three months."
Dmitri speaks to the waiter, ordering for both of us without asking my preferences. Under normal circumstances, I'd be furious. But I'm too busy drowning in my own thoughts to care about food.
Three months.
I asked for three months, expecting a fight.
Expecting him to laugh, to counter with three weeks, to remind me that mafia marriages don't work on my timeline.
That's how this world operates. A princess gets sold to the highest bidder, the wedding happens before anyone can change their mind, and she learns to live with her choice.
But Dmitri agreed.
Not just agreed. He negotiated. Like my conditions actually mattered. Like my comfort was a factor worth considering.
No mafia man does that. None.
I watch him dismiss the waiter with a nod, his attention already returning to me.
Why?
The question burns through my skull. Why does the heir to the Chicago Bratva, a man who could snap his fingers and have a dozen mob princesses delivered to his doorstep, want me specifically? Want me badly enough to play by my rules?
This isn't tradition. If Dmitri needed a wife for political reasons, he'd have married years ago.
The Bratva has connections to Russian families, Ukrainian families, even some Polish organizations.
Women raised from birth to be pakhan's wives.
Women who wouldn't demand three-month evaluation periods or veto power.
He could have had any of them. He could have had the wedding done within a week.
Instead, he's sitting across from me in a restaurant. He's agreeing to my terms. He's promising to murder my other suitors.
This is not business.
My brothers won't question it. Of course they won't. The alliance benefits them too much.
None of them will ask why Dmitri chose their sister over easier options.
But I need to know.
The question claws at my throat. I grip my wine glass to keep my hands from shaking, or from reaching across the table to slap him until he gives me a real answer.
Why me? Why the tech nerd who hides in her room? Why the grieving sister who can barely function at family dinners?
"You're thinking very loudly," Dmitri observes.
"I'm trying to figure out your angle."
"I told you my angle. Marriage. Alliance. You."
"That's not an angle. That's a list." I set down my glass harder than necessary. "You could have any princess in any organization. Women who wouldn't make you jump through hoops. Women who'd marry you tomorrow."
"I don't want them."
"Why?"
The word comes out sharper than intended. Almost desperate. I hate how it sounds.
Dmitri's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. A crack in the ice.
"Because they're not you."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer that matters."
I want to scream. I want to flip this table and demand he stop speaking in riddles. I want to grab his perfectly pressed collar and shake him until real words fall out.
Instead, I lean forward. "I met you once before the club. Once. At the Moretti gala. You kissed my hand and I ran away. That's it. That's our entire history before you cornered me at Nexus."
"Yes."
"So what the hell happened in that thirty seconds that made you decide I was worth this much effort?"
Dmitri is quiet for a long moment. The candle between us flickers, casting shadows across his scarred eyebrow.
"You looked at me," he says finally. "And then you ran. I've had women throw themselves at my name," Dmitri continues. "At my power. At what I represent. You ran from all of it. And I couldn't stop thinking about why."
"So this is... what? A challenge? You want me because I said no?"
"I want you because you're the first woman who made me want to be wanted."
Oh, I'm fucked.
I'm so completely, catastrophically fucked.
Because that answer?
It's exactly what I needed to hear.
Dmitri
Vittoria eats in silence.
She cuts her filet into precise, tiny pieces. Takes small bites. Chews slowly. Her eyes stay fixed on her plate.
I scared her.
Good. She should be scared. I meant every word.
But watching her retreat into herself makes me have this unfamiliar sensation. I’m feeling uncomfortable. I don't like it.
I take a sip of wine. Wait.
This is how I operate. I don't chase. I don't explain myself. I state facts and let them settle. If she can't handle the truth of what I am, better she learns now than after we're bound together.
But the silence stretches. Her fork scrapes. She doesn't look up.
"You're not eating," she finally says. Her voice is flat. Controlled.
"I'm not hungry."
Another bite. Another scrape. Her jaw works as she chews.
"How are you doing it?"
I set down my glass. "Doing what?"
Now she looks up.
"Stalking me." She sets her fork down. "I checked our systems. Every camera, every feed, every access point.
Nothing. No breaches, no suspicious pings, no digital footprint.
" Her fingers tap against the white tablecloth.
"I thought maybe you'd found a way in I couldn't trace.
Some zero-day exploit, some backdoor I missed. But there's nothing."
Pride flickers through me. She's good. Better than good. She's brilliant.
"So it has to be human intelligence," she continues. "Someone inside. But I've run facial recognition on every person who's entered the compound in the past month. Cross-referenced them against known Bratva associates. Nothing."
She leans forward slightly.