Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROSALIA
The harsh, bright lights of the vanity mirror sting my eyes, but I barely notice.
The makeup artist works meticulously on my eyes while another stylist finishes pin-curling my hair. Through the reflection, across the bustling studio, my gaze keeps drifting to the far side of the room where Dominic stands talking with Keane.
He’s wearing another tailored charcoal suit that fits his broad frame with effortless perfection, his posture commanding, his hand casually resting in his pocket as he speaks. He looks so breathtakingly good it almost makes my stomach turn.
I still can't quite process the fact that I am married to him.
After years of being bound to Luciano—a man I couldn't bear to glance at for a single second without a wave of nausea washing over me—I can’t believe I’m now tethered to a man I could practically drool over.
Dominic always looks so put together, so striking, so relentlessly attractive.
And it isn't just his appearance. He seems to have something Luciano never possessed: a shred of morals.
Make no mistake, I still resent him. I hate his obsession with control, and I despise the ruthless way he acquired me from my father like a piece of high-value stock. I have zero delusions about him being a good man; he’s dangerous, lethal, and powerful.
But the way he defended me yesterday?
No one has ever stood up for me like that in front of my father. No one.
Except my sisters, of course. But even they had their limits, shackled by the deep, ingrained fear we all share of Massimo Caruso—a fear carved into us by the way he raised us.
Even Luciano used to mock me right in front of my father, eagerly joining in to tear me down and call me names whenever Massimo started in on me.
Dominic didn't just demand that my father respect me. I’ve started to realize that, in his own strange, autocratic way, Dominic actually respects me as a person, too.
"Mrs. Kane?"
The makeup artist's voice snaps me out of my trance. She steps back, holding up a hand mirror so I can see the subtle gold shadow on my eyelids. "Are you satisfied with the blend, or would you like me to deepen the outer corners a bit more?"
I blink, tearing my eyes away from the mirror's reflection of Dominic, my cheeks warming slightly as I focus back on my own face.
"It looks lovely," I say, offering the woman a soft, grateful smile. "Honestly, I trust your judgment completely with whatever you think works best."
The makeup artist beams at me, clearly pleased, and turns back to her brushes.
I deliberately force my eyes to stay fixed on my own face, refusing to glance back at Dominic's reflection in the glass. It’s an embarrassing truth, but at twenty-seven years old, I don't even know what makeup best suits my face. I’ve never really tried to apply it myself—just a light dust of powder and a swipe of lip gloss whenever I had to leave the house.
All through my marriage to Luciano, cosmetics were just another tool he used to maintain complete control over me. He banned me from wearing makeup, claiming he didn't want me looking beautiful for other men, masking his sickening possessiveness as traditional expectations.
A cold shudder ripples down my spine just thinking about him. Whoever murdered Luciano... may their pillow always be the exact right temperature. I don't feel a single drop of guilt for wishing the killer well. Not even a shred.
Fifteen minutes later, the shoot director steps over to my chair, snapping me out of my dark thoughts. "Mrs. Kane? We're ready for you on set."
"Thank you," I whisper, smoothing down my dress as I rise from the vanity chair.
I walk over to join Dominic in the center of the studio. As I approach, his dark eyes drag slowly over me, taking me in from head to toe. The intense heat of his gaze makes my pulse stutter.
"You look beautiful, Rosalia," he says, his low voice carrying a raw, quiet sincerity that catches me off guard.
My throat tightens. "Thank you, Dominic."
"Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Kane!" the photographer calls out, clapping his hands to capture the crew's attention. "It's time. Let's take center stage."
We step up onto the backdrop platform under the glaring heat of the studio lights.
The photographer and director immediately start throwing out directions, calling for poses, and we follow along. I try my best to match Dominic's lead, but my nerves are practically thrumming under my skin. I keep glancing sideways at him in disbelief.
How does he look so impossibly calm and collected? How does he excel at literally everything he turns his hand to, while I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water?
"Okay, good, but let's drop the formality!" the photographer calls out from behind his camera, waving a hand at us. "Mr. Kane, slide closer. We need heat! Touch a little more naturally, please. Mrs. Kane, soften up—give us a warmer, more intimate look."
A wave of sheer panic hits me, locking up my muscles. Intimate? Natural? Warm? I don't know how to be any of those things, especially not in front of a full production crew.
But Dominic doesn't hesitate for a single second.
Instead, he moves in completely. He reaches out and touches me more brazenly—his large, heavy hand sliding around my waist to grip my side, pulling me flush against the hard length of his body until there isn't a single inch of daylight left between us.
"Perfect! Oh, that is gorgeous!" the photographer yells, snapping away frantically. "Keep going! Give me more of that!"
Dominic's hand shifts, his fingers sliding up from my waist, traveling over my ribs until his palm rests against the front of my throat, his long fingers gently circling my neck.
A sharp gasp rips from my chest. Every inch of my skin erupts in goosebumps under the intoxicating pressure of his hand.
"Yes! Yes! Magnificent!" The photographer is practically jumping behind the lens, his shutter clicking in a rapid-fire frenzy. "More heat, Mr. Kane! Give us more!"
Dominic tilts his head, leaning down into my space so slowly, so deliberately, that I am fairly certain he is about to kiss me right here. In front of the crew. In front of the camera. In front of the entire world.
Panic spikes through me, and I try to take a step back, but his grip on my waist tightens, holding me firmly in place. He doesn't let me move an inch.
"Dominic," I whisper, my voice trembling as I look up into his dark, relentless eyes. "Our agreement. You said you wouldn't touch me more than necessary."
A dangerously smooth smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his thumb softly tracing the curve of my jawline. "Isn't this necessary, Rosalia? The entire country is going to see these pictures. Let's sell it to them."
"You're too close," I choke out, my breath catching in my throat as my heart hammers violently against my ribs.
He leans in closer still, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his low voice vibrating right through my bones.
"Which part makes you uncomfortable, sweetheart?" he murmurs softly. "My closeness... or your reaction to it?"
I scoff, trying to inject as much ice into my voice as I can assemble. "In your dreams, Dominic."
He lets out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrates right against my chest. "This isn't a dream, Rosalia. I can feel you trembling in my arms. I can feel your shudder. I can feel the goosebumps breaking out on your skin."
"Dominic..." I warningly murmur, though it lacks any real bite.
He ignores the faint protest, leaning further down until his lips graze the shell of my ear, his tongue darting out to lick the sensitive curve. My mouth parts on a sharp, involuntary intake of air, heat surging straight to my core.
"Remember how you looked at me that night?
" he whispers, his breath hot against my skin, sending another wave of shivers down my spine. "When I changed into my briefs right in front of you, and you caught sight of my cock? Remember how hard I was? I bet you do. I bet you haven’t been able to think about anything else.”
"Dominic!" I gasp, my face burning up instantly.
From behind the flashing lights, the photographer whistles loudly in delight. "Oh, brilliant! Mrs. Kane, that blush is a beautiful color! Whatever you're doing, Mr. Kane, do not stop!"
Dominic pulls back just enough to flash me a slow, wicked smirk, his dark eyes gleam with complete satisfaction. I press my lips together to suppress an outright groan.
This is going to be a very, very long shoot.
Thirty minutes later, it’s a wrap, and I honestly don’t know if I’m relieved that it's over or disappointed that we have to stop. But as Dominic and I pull apart, I quickly convince myself that I'm just excited to step away.
Because what on earth was that?
All through the rest of the shoot, Dominic never let me go. Not even once. He stayed wrapped around me, whispering dirty talk into my ear every time the camera flashed. My goodness... the man has a filthy mouth.
And I must be just as filthy as he is, because the entire time, my body was absolutely on fire. I have never felt that kind of intense heat for any man in my life.
Goodness.
I push away from him, turning to glare just as the photographer approaches us, practically beaming from ear to ear.
"These pictures are going to be absolute fire," he says, clapping his hands together.
"Thank you," we say almost in unison.
The photographer shakes his head, looking between the two of us in genuine awe. "I've been in this business for ten years and shot thousands of couples, but I have never met anyone with more insane chemistry than you two."
I want to scoff out loud, but I force myself to hold a polite, frozen smile. Dominic does the same. We thank him again, and he finally walks off to check the monitors.
"Did you hear that?" Dominic asks, his voice laced with pure smugness.
I turn and pin him with a razor-sharp glare. "You didn't keep to our arrangement."
He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he can even start.
"I want to go home," I say flatly, turning on my heel to march straight toward the dressing room before he can get another word in.
Twenty minutes later, we’re back in the luxury of the sedan, heading home.
Neither of us speaks a word. I keep my head turned toward the window, watching the city skyline blur past, while he sits beside me with his phone glued to his palm, a heavy, dark frown carved into his features.
The silence between us is thick and charged, still thrumming with the leftover tension from the studio.
Suddenly, Dominic’s phone buzzes with an incoming call. He answers it instantly, listening in complete silence for a few seconds before barking a quick, sharp command into the receiver.
"We're rerouting," he tells the driver, his voice cold and crisp. “Keane just called. He’ll text you an address.”
I turn to look at him, but he doesn't offer an explanation. Ten minutes later, the car pulls up in front of a looming, nondescript concrete building tucked away in an industrial quarter of the city.
Before I can even open my mouth to ask what on earth we're doing here, Dominic turns to me, his gaze unyielding. "Wait inside the vehicle, Rosalia. I won't be long."
Without waiting for my agreement, he steps out into the evening air, slamming the doors shut behind them.
I roll my eyes at his abrupt departure, crossing my arms over my chest as I watch his tall frame vanish through the building's entrance.
Minutes later, the driver turns around in his seat, looking apologetic. "Mrs. Kane, excuse me. Do you mind if I step away for a minute to relieve myself?"
"Go ahead," I say, waving him off.
Once he steps out, the silence inside the car wraps around me. Left entirely alone in the dim interior, a strange restlessness settles in my chest. Sitting still suddenly feels impossible.
Deciding I need a breath of fresh air, I pop the door open and step out onto the pavement, stretching my legs as I wander a few paces away from the vehicle.
The air is cool against my skin, but before I can take more than a few steps, a muffled sound drifts out from an open high-set window near the side of the building.
I freeze.
It’s a voice. It sounds undeniably like my husband—yet completely different from any way he has ever spoken to me. It carries a terrifying, razor-sharp edge—a cold, lethal quality that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Driven by an irresistible wave of curiosity, my feet move before my brain can stop me. I creep closer to the shadowed side of the building, keeping low as I head toward the source of the voice.
What on earth is he doing in there?