Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Dominic
I watch Isabella from the corner of my eye. She’s deep in thought, probably planning her next act of rebellion. I haven’t spoken to her since midway through the drive, when her coat shifted, and I realized she’s dressed like pure fucking temptation.
Annoyance rises in my chest but I take a deep breath. I’ll teach her a fucking lesson when we get back.
It took every bit of control not to return to the mansion and drag her back inside, caveman style, rip the fabric to shreds, and remind her who the fuck she belongs to.
Not to mention, she’s wearing makeup that suits her features. The lack of glasses enhances her feminine appeal, but even more so, the rebellious facade she’s putting on makes her come off as more confident. And that’s both annoying and sexy as fuck.
My cock twitches, and that’s my cue to train my thoughts on something else. A fucking boner is the last thing I want to walk into the event.
The car slows to a stop. My gaze shifts to the tinted window. The entrance is already packed with hungry wolves, looking for the next story to sell. We’re late, thanks to my darling wife.
Irritation climbs my chest. I hate gatherings. Too many mouths. Too many variables I can’t control. But my presence here is unavoidable, especially if I want to keep the deal with Grimaldi in progress.
I glance at her, lips pressed into a flat line. “No talking unless given permission. No greetings and, most importantly, no unnecessary introductions.” I can’t afford Isabella running her mouth and embarrassing me.
She frowns, her mouth twitching into a stubborn pucker. Lips painted blood red to match the dress. A fucking temptation that I want to smear all over my cock until she’s begging for mercy.
“You will smile for the cameras and act like we’re fond of each other,” I add plainly.
She pulls her head back, cocking her brow with a puzzled expression like I’ve just argued that the earth is a triangle. Then she releases a deep, belly-turning laughter that makes me clench my fist.
“Fond of each other?” She eyes me. “Can’t act like that even if I tried.”
My jaw ticks. She’s about to burst into that annoying laughter again when I grip her wrist firmly enough to remind her who’s in control. Her laugh dies when she sees the look in my eyes.
“Test me out there,” I rasp, face inches from hers, “and I swear the cameras will capture a wife begging her Don for mercy. And I’ll be damned if I don’t give them a show.”
“Go to hell!” She releases a sharp breath, angling her head.
I let my eyes drop, down her throat, over the bare stretch of her back, to the slit riding up her thigh. A dress designed to taunt me. To make every man outside want what already belongs to me.
My lips curl into a cruel smirk. “Where do you think I came from, dolcezza (sweetness)?”
I loosen my grip, and she yanks her wrist out with a sneer just as the driver opens the door.
I step out first, ignoring the camera flashes and questions. I don’t give them shit. Instead, I move around the car, extending my hand because appearances matter, even when they choke me.
Isabella places her hand in mine, stepping out of the car.
A practiced smile plays at her mouth as she links her arm through mine.
The heels she’s wearing add inches to her height, bringing her close enough to brush my shoulder.
She leans in, her breath ghosting over my skin. “Don’t you like the dress?”
The cameras go insane at the angle. Perfect fucking bait. I can already imagine what the papers will display tomorrow. My hand moves to the small of her back. She shivers, and I savor the victory. “Every action has consequences, darling wife.”
And I’m already planning exactly what those consequences will be.
***
The Black Rose Gala is hosted every year. To the outside world, it’s a charity ball. To us, it’s the one night we choke down our hatred, sit across our enemies, and pretend civility exists in our world.
We’re guided to the table, set apart on a low platform at the head of the hall. A table for the four elite families in New York. Four seats of power that have run this city in the shadows for decades.
The room is large enough to fit the entire population of Vatican City.
Over a dozen round tables are already filled with men and their significant others.
Waitresses dressed in black fitted dresses move between these tables, carrying trays with glasses of wine.
Above us, hundreds of glass rod installations hang like raindrops frozen midair, and from the far corner of the room, a string quartet plays.
“Glad you could join us.”
Salvatore Russo, the host of the event this year, pushes himself halfway out of his chair, a cigar clamped between his fat fingers, and his other hand extended.
“Dominic,” Marco Conti drawls next, flashing the oily smile of a man who’s never earned the seat he’s sitting in. The Contis are “new money” real estate kings, but I’ve never liked Marco in particular.
A faint clink pulls my attention down the table. Valerie DeLuca lifts her wine glass in my direction. “Long time, no see, King.”
“I see we’re still using nicknames,” I reply coolly.
The DeLucas don’t bother with facades. Guns are their business. From corner crews in Brooklyn to private militias in South America, half of them carry DeLuca steel. Rocco DeLuca built that empire brick by bloody brick, but he’s on his deathbed now. His daughter, Valerie, is taking over.
I take my seat, Isabella at my side. The waiter refills glasses and serves us antipasti. Isabella crosses her legs, the slit of her dress riding higher. And Marco’s fucking eyes go there instantly. He doesn’t even have the decency to disguise it.
My hand twitches under the table, itching for my gun. I want to put a bullet between his eyes and watch his brain matter splatter across the starched white tablecloth while the string quartet keeps playing. I want him to choke on his own tongue for daring to look at what’s mine.
Isabella, oblivious, lifts her wine glass. Marco licks his lips. I grip her bare thigh beneath the table, hard enough that she startles, eyes flashing to me. I don’t look at her. I keep my stare locked on Marco until he finally realizes he’s been caught, and returns his gaze to his plate.
One bullet. That’s all it would take.
***
“Let’s address the issue on the ground,” Valerie says after the formalities are over, dabbing her lips with a napkin. Her stare pins me across the table. “The U.S. election is coming, and our candidate is still trailing in the polls.”
I lower my glass onto the wood. “That’s why we’re here. To come up with a plan.” My gaze settles on Marco because if there’s one bastard in this room who’d take money from the other side, it’s him.
He coughs too quickly, eyes widening. “You can’t possibly be suspecting me?”
Salvatore exhales smoke thick enough to sting the back of my throat. “No one said anything about suspecting you.” His tone is flat, but I catch the look in his eyes, the way they cut toward Marco. The old bastard sees what I see.
Isabella stifles a yawn. She looks like a bored debutante at a ball instead of a woman sitting at the most dangerous table in New York.
But I’d rather have her here, at my side, than left alone to be gawked at like some exhibit on display. And I don’t even fucking know why. It’s not like I feel anything for her—well, other than the constant feeling of irritation.
Salvatore grunts. “When I was young, a mayor knew who buttered his bread. Now? Now they spit on the hand that feeds them.”
“Maybe that’s because you all still think like men from the last century,” Isabella says softly.
Marco’s bushy brows shoot up. Salvatore freezes mid-drag on his cigar. Even Valerie tilts her head, smiling like she just found a new toy.
And my stomach coils with dangerous heat. My beautiful, reckless little mutineer just threw herself into the fire. Every instinct I have screams to drag her under the table and remind her who runs her mouth, and who shuts it.
She doesn’t stop there though. “You talk about elections like it’s still the fifties. Bribes and favors don’t move people anymore. Headlines do. Stories. Social media. The opposition doesn’t have more money than you; he has attention. And that’s what wins in today’s world.”
Her nails tap lightly against the stem of her glass. “If you want your candidate to take City Hall, you don’t need more envelopes stuffed with cash. You need cameras pointed in the right direction.”
Once again, I squeeze Isabella’s thigh under the table, hard enough to make her breath hitch. Her eyes widen as the realization dawns on her.
She places her glass down carefully. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”
I track her retreat, my pulse hammering with equal parts fury and something I don’t care to acknowledge because the reckless little thing isn’t wrong.
The second she’s gone, Marco lets out a low whistle. “Sharp tongue on that one. Lucky man, Dominic.” His gaze moves toward the doorway through which she disappeared. “I wouldn’t mind—”
The rest of his sentence dies when my hand drifts toward my jacket. “I dare you to finish that statement.”
Valerie chuckles under her breath. “I like her,” she drawls, eyes glinting mischievously. “Who would’ve thought? The infamous Dominic Moretti, tethered to a woman who doesn’t tremble at his shadow. I expected something… docile.”
I can tell she’s baiting me for a reaction. I stand slowly, and every eye follows me as I adjust my jacket. “We’re done here.” I turn, ready to hunt down Isabella before her mouth earns her a punishment she won’t walk straight from, when a too-familiar voice halts me.
“Dominic, it’s good to see you.”