Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vittoria
Bellini's the kind of restaurant where the waiters judge your shoes before they judge your reservation. Lorenzo's pride and joy.
And apparently, I need two armed escorts to eat pasta here even though my brother owns the place.
Dante walks on my left, Elio on my right. We move through the entrance like a formation, and I catch the hostess's eyes widen before she schools her expression into professional neutrality.
"Table's in the back corner," Dante says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Clear sightlines to both exits. Lorenzo had it set up this morning."
Of course he did. Because nothing says casual dinner like tactical positioning.
I pause before we reach the main dining room, turning to face Dante. He's wearing his usual all-black ensemble. Armani that fits like armor, concealing God knows how many weapons. His dark eyes scan the room even as he listens to me.
"If I need you, I'll wave." I keep my voice steady. "Otherwise, stay back. This isn't a situation that requires intervention."
Dante's jaw tightens. "Vittoria—"
"I'm not afraid of James Rogers." I smooth down the front of my black dress. Simple. Nothing that says trying too hard. "He's an annoyance, not a threat."
"Your brother would disagree."
"My brother thinks everyone is a threat." I meet Dante's gaze directly. "I can handle a man whose biggest accomplishment is inheriting daddy's car dealerships."
Dante's expression is unreadable. Hard to tell with him. The man has approximately three facial settings: blank, slightly less blank, and someone's about to die.
"Wave if you need me," he repeats, and it's not a question.
I nod once, then turn toward the dining room.
James Rogers is already seated at the corner table, exactly where Lorenzo positioned him. He spots me the moment I clear the entrance, and his face splits into that practiced smile that probably works on sorority girls and Instagram models.
He stands as I approach, arms opening like he expects a hug.
Absolutely not.
"Vittoria." His voice drips with false warmth. "You look stunning. As always."
I stop just outside his reach, extending my hand instead. He takes it, holding on a beat too long, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"James." I extract my hand and slide into the chair opposite him. "Thank you for rearranging your schedule."
"Of course." He settles back into his seat, adjusting his cufflinks. Rolex on his wrist. Tom Ford suit. Everything about him screams look how successful I am in a way that actual successful people never do. "I've been looking forward to this."
I bet you have.
The waiter appears with menus and a wine list. James orders a bottle of something without asking my preference, and I file that away under reasons to hate him.
Dmitri did too.
It's not the same though. Right?
"I was surprised you agreed to reschedule," he says once the waiter disappears. "After everything."
After you got caught with a secret fiancée, you mean?
"My family believes in giving people second chances." I unfold my napkin, laying it across my lap. "And I was curious."
"Curious?"
"About what you could possibly say to explain yourself."
His smile stays fixed, but his eyes go hard. There it is. The real James Rogers, hiding behind the charming exterior. I've seen that look before at the gala, when I told him to stop touching me and he pretended not to hear me.
Men like James don't hear no. They hear try harder.
"Well, you see—" James starts, leaning forward with that earnest expression men wear when they're about to lie.
"Stop." I hold up my hand. "I know about your fiancée."
His face goes completely still. Like someone hit pause on his practiced charm.
"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice drops an octave, losing that fake warmth. "Who told you—"
"Cut the shit, James."
The waiter appears with our wine. Perfect timing. James straightens in his chair, that plastic smile snapping back into place as the waiter pours. The second we're alone again, his mask drops.
"Listen, Vittoria—"
"No, you listen." I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "My family doesn't know about her.
Yet. But I do. So here's what's going to happen.
We're going to finish this dinner because my mother raised me with manners.
Then you're going to go back to daddy dearest and tell him the Sartori alliance isn't happening through marriage. We both walk away happy."
Simple. Clean. Everyone saves face.
James picks up his wine glass, takes a slow sip.
"That's not how this works."
"Excuse me?"
"We're getting married, Vittoria."
I actually laugh. Can't help it. The audacity of this man.
"No, we're not."
"Yes." He leans forward, and suddenly he doesn't look like a spoiled rich boy anymore. He looks like someone who's used to getting exactly what he wants. "We are."
"You have a fiancée."
"Had." He shrugs. "Past tense. That situation has been... resolved."
Resolved.
"I don't care if you dumped her or—"
"Your family needs this alliance." His voice stays calm, reasonable. Like we're discussing stock options instead of my life. "My father's connections open doors yours can't reach. Political influence. Things the Sartoris need to expand beyond Chicago."
"We're doing fine without you."
"Are you?" He tilts his head. "Bruno's crippled. Pietro's struggling to maintain control. The Torrinos might be handled, but there are other families circling. The Corsettis. The Morettis. Even the Russians are making moves."
My jaw clenches at the mention of Russians. At the thought of Dmitri, who canceled our plans for a family emergency and hasn't texted since then.
"My family can handle our own business."
"Your family is vulnerable." James's fingers drum against the table. "And getting weaker. How long before someone decides the Sartoris aren't worth respecting anymore?"
"Is that a threat?"
"It's reality." He signals the waiter for menus. "Your brothers know it. That's why they're shopping you around like merchandise."
The words hit exactly where he intended. Because he's not wrong. That's exactly what this is. What I am. Currency in a man's world.
"I said no."
"And I'm saying that doesn't matter." He opens his menu, casual as anything. "The salmon here is excellent, by the way."
I stare at him. This entitled piece of shit sitting across from me, calmly discussing fish while planning to buy me like a car from one of his dealerships.
"I'll tell them about your fiancée."
"Ex-fiancée. And go ahead." He doesn't even look up from the menu. "Tell them I had a relationship before meeting you. You think they'll care? Men have pasts, Vittoria. It's expected."
He's right. God, I hate that he's right. Pietro had other women before Nora. Lorenzo had that disaster with Luna. Even Nico probably has history we don't know about. But for them, it's just experience. For women, it's damage.
"I won't marry you."
"You will." He sets down the menu, those cold eyes meeting mine. "Because your family needs this. Because you're a good daughter who does what's necessary. And because, honestly? You don't have a choice."
"Everyone has a choice."
"No." He leans back, completely relaxed. "They don't. Your mother's already planning the wedding. Did she tell you? She and my mother had lunch yesterday. Apparently, June is lovely for ceremonies."
My fingers curl around the edge of the tablecloth. The linen is expensive, smooth against my skin. I focus on that sensation because everything else feels like it's spinning.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" James picks up his wine glass, swirling the red liquid with practiced ease. "Call her. Ask her yourself."
I won't give him the satisfaction. But my stomach drops anyway, because I can see it. Mamma in some upscale café, discussing flower arrangements and guest lists while I sat in my room thinking I had any control over my own life.
"Even if that's true—"
"It is."
"—it doesn't change my answer." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I'm not marrying you."
James opens his mouth to respond.
And then I hear it.
That voice. Low, with just enough of an accent to make the consonants sharper than they should be.
"Vittoria."
My whole body goes rigid.
Dmitri Baganov stands at the edge of our table, and everything about him screams anger. His eyes fix on me first before sliding to James with an expression that makes the temperature in the room drop ten degrees.
"Baganov." James doesn't stand. Doesn't offer his hand. Just sits there with that smug smile, like Dmitri is an inconvenience rather than the heir to the Chicago Bratva. "Didn't realize you'd be joining us."
"I wasn't aware I needed an invitation." Dmitri's gaze doesn't leave James's face. "To speak with my fiancée."
Fiancée.
Dmitri
James Rogers rises from his chair.
Movement to my left. Dante Castellani materializes from the shadows, and suddenly I'm staring down the barrel of a Glock aimed directly at my face.
The cold metal doesn't make me flinch. I've had guns pointed at me since I could walk.
"Dante, back off." Vittoria's voice slices through the tension. She's on her feet now, palm pressed flat against the table, dark eyes blazing. "I said back off."
"Calm down, solnyshko." I keep my voice level, my hands visible at my sides. No sudden movements. Castellani's finger rests alongside the trigger guard—professional, controlled, but his jaw tells me he'd love an excuse. "No one needs to die tonight."
I turn my attention to Rogers. The boy stands frozen, his suit suddenly looking too big for his frame. Sweat beads at his temple.
"This is the last time," I say, letting each word drop like a stone into still water, "that I allow such disrespect from you or your family. Consider this your only warning."
Rogers swallows hard. His Adam's apple bobs. "No one informed me you were engaged." His voice cracks on the last word. Pathetic. "I had every right to pursue—"