Chapter Thirty
Lily
We arrive at the fundraiser. Damiano gets out of the sleek black car first, his tailored suit hugging his tall frame like it was sewn onto him.
A valet rushes over but Damiano waves him off.
He rounds the car and opens my door himself.
I step out, careful in my heels, only to be tugged forward unexpectedly.
I stumble against his hard chest, my hand landing flat on the expensive fabric stretched over muscle and heat.
He wraps his arm around my waist, locking me against him.
His gaze catches mine, dark, smoldering, hooded with something I can’t quite name.
Possession? Hunger? Something ancient and primal and dangerous.
I forget how to breathe. “You’re trying to kill me,” I mutter without thinking.
He lowers his head slightly, brushing his lips across mine in a ghost of a kiss that’s somehow more intimate than anything blatant. “Not tonight, sweetheart. Tonight, I’m going to make you mine.”
Before I can process the meaning behind his words, he leads me inside, his hand firm and possessive at the small of my back.
The ballroom is a cathedral of opulence with glittering chandeliers, polished marble floors, music floating through the air like silk.
Heads turn the moment we walk in. I can feel the weight of their gazes, some curious, some surprised, a few sharp and calculating.
I am wearing the most stunning dress I’ve ever touched, have been styled within an inch of my life, yet I still feel out of place. This is not my world, I remind myself. But I can pretend for one night. I force a serene expression and let Damiano guide me farther in, his presence a wall at my back.
I’m looking around, trying to spot Chiara, when Damiano’s arm tenses around me.
I glance up at him. His jaw is clenched, his eyes locked on a figure approaching from across the room.
It’s a man—tall, broad, with that same smooth, dangerous energy I’ve seen in Damiano.
His hair is a touch longer, his mouth curled in a smile that doesn’t reach his icy grey eyes.
Predator meets predator.
“Gian,” Damiano growls, voice low and edged in steel.
“Damiano,” Gian replies with cool amusement, as if they’re old friends catching up over drinks, not two men who’d probably enjoy strangling each other with their bare hands.
“Still brooding like a thundercloud, I see. I hope that our little competitive banter earlier didn’t antagonize you too much.
I meant no harm.” His cold smile does not reach his eyes.
He extends a hand. Damiano ignores it. Undeterred, Gian’s gaze slides to me, and suddenly I understand the tension. This is no casual acquaintance. This man is someone important, someone dangerous.
“And who is this lovely vision?”
I smile politely. “Good evening. I’m Lily.”
He takes my hand to lift it toward his lips, but doesn’t quite make it. Damiano jerks my hand back, holding it against his chest with a scowl.
I raise an eyebrow at him, then turn a syrupy smile back to Gian. “It’s a pleasure.” He wants to play the jealous caveman? Two can play this game.
“Gian Mancini,” the man says smoothly. “Call me Gian, please. I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
I have heard of him—he’s been the head of the Mancini family since his father retired last year.
“I don’t go to many events like this,” I say lightly.
“Well, that’s a shame. A face like yours should be seen.”
Damiano tightens his hold on my waist, his whole body rigid.
Gian cocks his head. “So you and Damiano…” He lets the question hang in the air, suggestive and loaded.
Before Damiano can cut in, I offer a sweet, practiced smile and slide my hand lazily down Damiano’s arm. “I keep him entertained,” I say. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Gian’s eyebrows lift a fraction. I watch the flicker of recognition, then interest, spark in his gaze.
Beside me, Damiano goes stone-still. I can feel the tension in his body coil tight, like a wire pulled too far.
There’s a beat of silence, then Gian throws his head back with a low, predatory laugh.
“Ah, I like her,” he says, eyes still locked on mine.
“Sharp tongue. Dangerous smile.” He casts a glance at Damiano. “You always did know how to pick them.”
He leans in, his voice dipping. “If he ever forgets your worth, bella, come find me. I’ll make sure you never feel like just…
an arrangement.” He sends a slow, shameless wink and saunters off without waiting for a response.
I can’t help but inwardly cringe at his crass proposition. Guess I had that coming for me.
The second he’s gone, I realize how dangerous that little moment of rebellion was. Damiano hasn’t moved. His grip is tight enough to bruise. His eyes are burning a hole through the side of my face. I am in trouble if I don’t quickly find an escape plan.
“I-I will get us something to drink,” I say breezily, trying to untangle myself from his hold.
But he tightens his arm around me, his hand resting almost painfully under my breasts.
His mouth brushes the shell of my ear, deceptively soft, and his menacing voice sends a thrill down my spine.
“You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
My breath catches.
“You want to play the part?” he murmurs. “Fine. Then you’ll stay by my side, looking pretty, smiling when I tell you to and keeping me…entertained. And if you pull a stunt like that again, I will rip that dress off of you and spank you in front of everyone. Is that clear?”
Holy shit. My mouth goes dry. Heat floods me.
“I…yes,” I stammer.
“Good girl,” he purrs, pressing a kiss below my ear.
Aaand my panties just combusted.
For more than an hour, Damiano drags me through the room, all the while keeping my side flush against his.
When he introduces me, it’s a clipped, disinterested “Lily,” as though that’s all they need, or deserve to know.
No explanation, no title, no context. Only my name tossed out like a bone to a pack of wolves.
Not a single person asks for clarification.
They are probably too polite or terrified of him to ask further.
By the time we finish making the rounds, I’m mentally drained, my cheeks aching from polite smiles, my nerves shot from balancing stilettos, champagne and the electric tension buzzing under my skin every time Damiano’s fingers graze my bare skin. And still no sign of Chiara.
“I’m going to the restroom,” I murmur as we finally come to a pause near the edge of the room, trying to hide my exhaustion.
Damiano turns his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “Be quick.”
I force a saccharine smile, solely to irritate him. “Of course, darling.” He grabs my arm in a sudden grip of steel and yanks me a fraction closer. I can feel the heat of his breath when he leans in, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that makes my spine both stiffen and melt.
“And stay away from Gian Mancini.”
I jerk back to glare at him. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”
His jaw tightens. “That man doesn’t look at women—he sizes them up like assets. He’s not interested in conversation.”
“Oh, and you brought me here for stimulating debate?” I shoot back. “You’ve hardly said a word all night that wasn’t an order.” He leans in again, the corner of his mouth lifting, but there’s no humor in it. Only control and hunger.
“Don’t test me, little flower,” he warns.
I stare up at him, chest rising and falling faster than it should. I want to scream at him. I want to kiss him. I want to throw my drink in his face. I want to run my hands through his hair to yank his face down to mine and press my body flush against his.
And I really want to take my sweet, sweet time in that bathroom now.
“Fine,” I snap, pulling my arm free with an exaggerated sigh. “But if I run into Gian, I can’t make any promises.” His eyes darken, and I smirk as I turn on my heel and disappear into the crowd.
The restroom is mercifully empty, the heavy door swinging shut behind me with a soft hiss that cuts off the hum of the gala.
For the first time all evening, silence wraps around me like a blanket.
I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and grip the edge of the marble sink.
My reflection stares back at me—flawless makeup, curled hair, a gown that clings in all the right places.
Yet beneath all the polish, I can still see the panic in my eyes.
I lean closer, splashing cool water on the insides of my wrists to cool off the tension inside me.
Maybe I’m just overwhelmed. Maybe I need five minutes, just five quiet minutes, and I’ll go back out there and smile and behave like the good little puppet Damiano expects me to be tonight. I take my time, basking in the silence.
But as I turn to leave, something catches my eye—a small window at the far end of the room.
I take a slow step toward it, heart beginning to pound.
It is cracked open, letting in a thread of fresh night air.
I reach up and push. It creaks but swings open fully.
It looks big enough for me to fit through…
barely. A thrill sparks in my chest. My fingers curl around the sill.
I stare at it, at the world on the other side so close I can almost taste it.
No more guards. No more stifling ballroom. No possessive hand gripping my waist like a leash.
This is my chance.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the trash bin from under the sink and flip it upside down beneath the window.
I unstrap my heels and toss them through.
They land on the other side with a soft clatter.
I grip the edge of the bin with my bare feet and I hoist myself up, scraping my thigh on the frame as I perch on the sill.
One last glance over my shoulder.
No one has come looking.
Yet.