46. Michael
Michael
We step off the elevator, and Katie grabs my arm, pulling me off to the side while the rest of the group keeps moving toward the ballroom.
“What the hell was that?” she asks, planting her hands on her hips.
I lift a brow.
“Don’t do that,” she snaps. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Her voice drops, mocking. “You belong to him. And no one messes with what belongs to Michael Amato.”
It hits me wrong in the best way, and I laugh.
“Stop laughing.” She punches me in the arm.
The hallway goes quiet. People stare at her first—a woman a foot shorter than me, barely reaching my shoulder, standing there like she has every right.
Their attention shifts to me next, and they look afraid.
They know I run this city. They know what happens to people who cross me, and they just watched her hit me.
I laugh again.
“Jackass,” she says.
She crosses her arms, glaring up at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m still smiling. I pull her into me before she can dodge it. “Victor’s been around my family forever. He says whatever he wants.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” I tell her, brushing my thumb along her arm. “He’s weird, but he’s not wrong. People don’t mess with what’s mine, Doll.”
Her eyes narrow. “I didn’t realize I was property.”
“You’re not,” I say, quick, but she’s already moving.
Her fingers pinch my side hard enough to make me jerk.
“Ow—“
“You were saying?”
I catch her wrist, still grinning. “You’re my girl, right?”
She studies me for a second.
“For now.”
“Oh,” I say, tipping my head. “My itty bitty Katie thinks she has power.”
The reaction is instant. Her expression snaps, and she shoves me back a step. I lose it, bending over as the laugh hits.
“I hate you. I hate you so much.”
I straighten and step in behind her, close enough that my mouth brushes her ear.
“That’s not what you were saying last night.” I pause, and add, quieter, “Sounded a lot more like ‘Michael…don’t stop…right there—’”
Her hand clamps over her mouth.
“Michael,” she hisses, whipping around. “We do not talk about that after we do…stuff.”
Her face is completely flushed, and she won’t even look at me for a second. I smile. God, she’s adorable.
“Come on,” I say, extending my hand. “Let’s go in.”
“Really?” she asks, deadpan. “After all that?” Her voice shifts into something sugary and fake. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go to the event now.”
I smirk, stepping closer instead of giving her space. “Yes. Plus, people are going to start wondering if the tiny, curly-haired brunette beat me up.”
She glares up at me. “I’m going to say this again. I’m not tiny. Five-six is a normal height. You’re the one who’s what, six-five? Six-six? You’re the abnormal one.”
A couple of people nearby glance over again but quickly look away when I meet their eyes. I grin at her, and she marches past me. How she walks in those heels, I’ll never know.
I let her get a few steps ahead before I follow. It doesn’t take much to catch up. I take her hand, pulling her back to my side. She doesn’t pull away.
The closer we get to the ballroom, the closer she moves in to me. It starts subtle, but I feel every inch of it. By the time we make it to the entrance, I’m pretty sure she’d crawl into my skin if it was an option.
She’s nervous as hell. She hides it well, but not from me.
The moment we step inside, every head turns. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The room shifts, attention locking in all at once, and Katie’s hand tightens around my arm.
“Well, that’s not weird,” she mutters under her breath.
I cover her hand with mine where it grips my arm. “Remember who I am.”
“Apparently you’re the fucking Godfather,” she mumbles.
I bite back a smile, not nearly as successful as I should be, and guide her forward. My hand settles at her back as I steer us toward a table near the front.
“Michael.”
Teresa Calloway, founder of the Calloway Arts Foundation and one of my mother’s closest friends stands as we approach, already smiling.
“Teresa, ciao.”
I release Katie for a moment, stepping in to greet her properly. My hands settle at Teresa’s arms as I lean in, pressing a kiss to each cheek before pulling back. I turn to Katie.
“This is my girlfriend, Katie.”
She looks at me, and then to Katie. She takes both of her hands in her own, warmly.
“Che bella ragazza, Michael,” she says.
“Finalmente, eh?”
Teresa laughs, and it spreads around the table. Katie smiles along with them, even though I know she doesn’t understand a word of it. My hand finds her back again, resting there.
“You keep this one in line, va bene?” Teresa says.
Katie nods. “I’ll do my best. He’s stubborn though.”
That earns another round of laughter, and just like that, something shifts. She leans into me a little less out of necessity and a little more out of comfort. Her laugh comes easier this time.
“Mr. Amato?” a voice cuts through the table.
I turn, and Matteo Messina stands behind me. I don’t bother hiding the irritation.
“Matteo.”
“Could I possibly have a word?”
His attention flicks to Katie for a second too long before returning to me. She doesn’t acknowledge him. She’s looking at me. I told her I wouldn’t leave her.
“I’m busy.”
“It won’t take long. I beg you.”
I look down at her.
“Not tonight.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I can sit down.” She turns to Teresa. “Would that be okay?”
“Ovviamente, of course.”
Katie smiles, a little brighter this time. “See.”
I exhale. “I won’t be long.”
She nods, sliding into the seat beside Teresa.
“Follow me,” I tell Matteo.
I start toward the door, aware of the way the room tracks us, conversations lowering enough to notice. Before I step out, I look back. Katie’s already deep in conversation with Teresa, animated, relaxed in a way she wasn’t a few minutes ago. Even from here, I can see it.
I hold onto that for a second before stepping into the hall, where I’m no longer Michael. I’m Mr. Amato.
I send the text before we even reach the elevator. By the time we hit the ninth floor, Marco and Luca are already waiting. I shove Matteo into the conference room and follow him in, letting the door slam shut behind us.
“Who the fuck do you think you are,” I say, already closing the distance, “walking up to me like that?”
“Please, Mr. Amato. Have pity—“
I grab him by the collar and drive him straight into the table.
The impact knocks the breath out of him, his hands scrambling uselessly against the surface.
I don’t give him time to recover. I drag him back up and shove him against the wall, forearm pressing hard across his chest, pinning him there.
“And why would I do that?”
“Sir, your engagement—Rosalia—she’s been inconsolable—“
“That’s not my problem.”
I release him long enough for him to drop, then shove him back down when he tries to get up. I watch him struggle on the floor for a second. He tries to push himself up again, his arm shaking under the effort, and I step forward enough to press my foot into his shoulder and force him back down.
“You don’t come to me,” I say, my voice level and controlled, “in a room full of people who watch everything I do, and start talking to me like we’re equals.”
“Mr. Amato, I—“
I shift my weight, cutting him off.
“No,” I say. “You don’t speak unless I give you permission.”
The room goes quiet except for his shallow breathing. I step back and let him sit up, but I don’t give him the chance to stand. He stays where he is, eyes down, hands braced on the floor.
“You embarrassed yourself tonight,” I continue. “Not me. You.” I tilt my head slightly. “Do you understand the difference?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I doubt that,” I say calmly. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be in here begging me to clean up a situation you created.”
His head lifts at that.
“Let’s be very clear,” I go on, stepping closer again. “This has nothing to do with me ending that engagement.”
“Sir—“
“This,” I cut in, “has everything to do with you not being able to control your own fucking life.”
His mouth closes.
“You put yourself in debt,” I continue. “You let it get bad enough that your family had to start making decisions to cover for it.” I let that sit for a beat. “That’s how I got involved.”
He looks away.
“Not because I wanted to be,” I add. “Because your mess forced its way into my world.”
“Mr. Amato, I never meant—“
“I don’t care what you meant,” I say, my voice dropping. “I care about what happened.”
I take another step forward, stopping in front of him.
“You don’t get to stand here and act like I took something from you,” I say. “You handed it over.”
I pause, letting it settle.
“And now you walk into my space,” I continue, “in front of people who understand exactly what I am, and you ask me for pity?”
I let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“You should be thanking me,” I say. “Because I walked away from that situation instead of making it permanent.”
He goes still.
“And you will not test that decision again,” I add, final and absolute. “Not by approaching me like that. Not by bringing her name to me. Not by making your problem mine.”
Silence stretches.
“Do you understand me?”
He nods.
“Say it properly.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hold his gaze for a second longer, making sure it sticks.
“Get up.”
He moves immediately.
“Fix yourself.”
I pause.
“We’re going back out there,” I say. “And you’re going to act like nothing happened.”
I adjust my cuff, rolling my neck in the process, and exit the room.