Chapter 14
GIANA
Two weeks later
T he papers in my hand don’t feel right.
It weighs nothing, yet I haven’t felt anything so heavy.
I stare out the window at the restaurant, struggling to swallow past the lump in my throat.
Last time I was here was with Caelian, our first official fake date. It was here where Caelian stabbed a man through the hand for trying to touch me.
Afterward, he requested a different table, like cutting a blade through someone’s palm is an everyday occurrence. Perks of being a Del Rossa. You’re untouchable.
God, this place amplifies all the feels. The heartache. The loneliness. The longing.
I don’t want to be here. At all.
Shifting on the leather seat in the back of the car, my driver doesn’t say a word. He watches discreetly, even though the motor purrs. If I say the word or my bodyguards give the signal, he’ll take off without hesitation.
The guards standing by my passenger side door are two of my father’s men. I hate the security detail, having eyes follow me around, but I know it’s necessary, and I’ve learned my lesson about not fighting battles I can’t win.
A deep sigh leaves my lips as I glance down at the papers.
I shouldn’t have to be here. Our lawyers could have handled this without any complications. I made sure it would be super simple and airtight. I don’t want a cent of the Del Rossa money. I’ll sign NDAs out the wazoo. I just want this over and done with.
I sent the ring and divorce papers to him, my part signed, by courier.
One day later?
The papers, minus the rings, arrived on my doorstep, his part unsigned. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text.
You want me to sign it, you can deliver it yourself.
When I turned the envelope over, he’d written…
Come on over and we’ll talk.
No way was I about to head to the Del Rossa mansion. Not even if he had all the answers to all the problems in the world and a pot of damn gold. Because I don’t trust him.
Sure, he’s baiting me. I know bait when I see it, dangling and shining from the fingers of a certain hot and deadly man. But what if it’s just a ruse to lock me up?
I look at yesterday’s texts. Because I’m the one who caved.
Fine. I’ll meet you. Carmines. 7pm. Thursday.
Boring. You’re boring without me. Tomorrow. 8pm. Our place.
We don’t have a place.
I can think of plenty of places to call our own. Beds, floors, walls, the wooded grounds of a sex club hunt.
Vine. 8pm.
Fine
Wear something pretty just for me.
“Ass,” I mutter, sliding my phone back into my purse.
Honestly, I thought about the ugliest thing I could find at some outlet store, but instead, I just chose a simple, boring black dress, a small shrug, stockings, heels, and make-up. No jewels.
I knock on the window, and one of the guards opens the door. He helps me out, and with him and his buddy flanking me, I head into the restaurant, shoulders squared, trying my best to ooze confidence with every step, even though my nerves are chewing away at my insides.
The ma?tre d smiles as I walk in. “Mrs. Del Rossa.”
“Belucci,” I correct him. Fuck knows why; it’s not like it matters. I’m just being stubborn.
“Mr. Del Rossa’s waiting for you.”
I should have made him wait longer. Nine? It’s already half past eight.
Nodding, I look around, and one of my guards starts to walk into the space first but the ma?tre d stops him.
“I’m sorry, but I’m under strict instruction that Mrs. Del Rossa?—”
“Belluci.”
“—goes in alone.”
“I’m not going in alone,” I say. “These men are with me, and they will accompany me.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes but doesn’t budge.
“Fine. I’ll be leaving, then.” I hold out the papers to him. “Please give this to Mr. Del Rossa.”
He holds up his hands. “Mrs. Del Rossa?—”
“Belucci, for God’s sake.”
“Please,” he continues with worry in his eyes, “if I don’t take you to him, I will lose my job.”
“Are you serious?” Of course he’s serious. It’s Caelian. He can turn any situation into a game, a power play just to get a thrill out of it. But I refuse to take part.
“I’m not going in there without protection. My men will accompany me, or you can tell Mr. Del Rossa I’ll be leaving.” I lower my voice as my bodyguards come up and flank me.
The look on the poor man’s face is completely your-funeral vibe, but he just nods, and we proceed across the room, a party of destruction.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. Every whisper, every glance has a question in it. The gossip will follow me like a darting shadow, never really leaving my side. But I'm prepared for that. Prepared for their judgment, their curiosity. I’d been branded a Del Rossa when I married Caelian.
The ma?tre d opens the door to a private room, and my stomach coils, my pulse suddenly racing, making it hard to breathe.
Right now, I need to put on the show of a lifetime, pretending I don’t feel anything for him. Pretending this is nothing more than the end of a business partnership.
A transaction.
But deep down, my soul is a high-pitched, screaming reminder that I’m so in love with this man, this meeting might kill me. But I have to be strong. I have to do what I came here to do. And I need to do so convincingly.
With an exhale, I steel myself as I saunter into the room, and the moment I see him, all my blood rushes with nowhere to go.
“New York,” he says, and my breath leaves me at the sound of his voice.
He’s leaning against the windowsill, shutters closed, with a cigarette in one hand like laws don’t apply to him, and a glass of bourbon in the other.
The last time I saw him, he desperately needed a shave, a haircut, and some sleep. And now, wearing a black suit and a black button shirt with an open collar, he looks as perfect as the man who found me in a coffee shop in the middle of New York City.
Caelian blows a stream of smoke and stubs out the cigarette on the floor under his shoe. Why? Because he’s Caelian Del Rossa and can do whatever the fuck he wants.
Those smoldering amber irises find mine, and I’m afraid he can see every ounce of blood rushing, every frantic beat of my heart.
He straightens. “Wine? Bourbon, or Vine’s latest cocktail?”
I lick my suddenly dry lips and taste the lipstick there.
His mouth curves into a sensuous, dirty smile. “Sex on the table with me.”
I stare, dumbfounded.
His eyes flash. “It’s the name of their new cocktail. It’s a little long, but I’m sure you can handle it.”
The sexual innuendo isn’t lost on me, but it does remind me of what an ass he can be. “No, I don’t want a drink.”
“Real sex on the table with me, then?”
“Screw you, Caelian.”
He smirks. “Careful, sweet, venomous Giana. Your men might think you love me.”
“I don’t,” I lie. “I hate you.” I lie again.
“Love, hate, they both work for me. I’m not just easy on the eyes, but easy in nature.”
“I have the papers.”
His smile dies, and his eyes harden. “I can see them.” He flicks a stern gaze at the guards. “Be a good girl, New York, and send your gorillas outside.”
“They stay.”
He adjusts his collar, rolls his shoulders. “Send them the fuck out, Giana. Now. Or I won’t sign those papers.”
He means it.
My cheeks burn as I turn and look from one man to the other. I can imagine the self-satisfied smirk on Caelian, the glint of triumph.
Both men’s faces are stone, but their annoyance at being dismissed burns hot like testosterone in the air.
But I force a smile. “I’ll be okay.”
They don’t move.
I glance back, and yes, he’s smirking, one hand raised in an arrogant and flippant bye-bye wave.
“This is my decision,” I tell them. “Not his. If you have to report back to my father, tell him I’m going to have something to eat, make him sign the papers, and then I’m going out for a drink.” I glare at Caelian. “To celebrate.”
There’s only a whiff of hesitation as they both turn to leave, and I close the door behind them.
I turn. And Caelian’s there so fast it’s like a vertigo attack, my head spinning as he pins me, hand either side of my head.
“Now that we’re alone.” Caelian strokes a finger, whisper-light against my hip. “Sex on the table with me?”
Everything quivers and explodes into life.
This close, he’s all I can smell—evocative, masculine, his scent so familiar I shake.
He doesn’t miss it, as that infuriatingly sexy mouth ticks up and he leans in, rubbing his shaved chin against my ear, then he brings his lips to my lobe where he licks a tiny path.
“I’m still referring to the drink. I’d hate for you to get the wrong idea.”
My pulse hammers a deafening rhythm of hot lava, my blood simmering and singing simultaneously. It’s something only he can stir within me with expert ease—that angered excitement, the annoyingly appealing pull of resistance.
I put my hands on his suit, and I push.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he steps back, and I’m flooded with a mix of relief and disappointment.
I’m still leaning against the door when he saunters off to sit. “Take off that fucking jacket thing and sit, New York.”
I right myself and stalk up, slamming the papers on the table before him. “Just sign it.”
“Take off that…thing,” he says, pointing at the shrug over my shoulders.
Now I wish I had worn something impossibly sexy, low cut, and figure hugging. I should have bought sky-high heels with blood-red soles for this occasion just to taunt him.
I take off the shrug and toss it at him. He grabs it and brings it to his nose, inhaling deeply while his eyes never leave mine.
“I’ve never liked the smell of patchouli,” he says, placing my shrug on the table.
“And I’ve never liked you.” I take a seat across from him, and through all of that, his smile is smug and cocky, like he knows something I don’t. Like this entire situation is entertaining to him.
I reach for the wine, pour a glass, and then drink half of it in three gulps. The red’s smooth like Caelian, sensuous on the tongue, with a lingering taste. It would have been better sipped slowly, but it works this way, too. Just like Caelian.
“Done,” I say. “Now sign.”
“Your naked body?” he asks. “Take off the dress, the panties, and bra. Leave the stockings on. I’ll sign anything you want, especially if it’s with my cock.”
I narrow my eyes. “What part of you thinks I want you?”
He picks up his bourbon and has a sip. “All of me. I’m very astute.”
“You’re very much a bastard. And deluded. I have divorce papers, and I want you to sign them.”
“You want my attention.”
“Yes, I want your attention in signing them,” I say, then sip my wine.
He tosses back the remainder of his bourbon, picks up the papers, and rises, stalking around. “We need to negotiate.”
“What?”
“Your demands are ludicrous.”
“I didn’t make any demands. I don’t want anything from you.”
“Exactly. Ridiculous.”
“No,” I say, “ this is ridiculous.”
His long legs carry him across the room, and I squirm.
He’s wearing what I’m betting is a bespoke suit. It matches his eyes, and the cut shows off his lean, masculine build. The muscles, the power of him.
This man makes my mouth dry, my heart flutter, and down below I can feel myself getting wetter by the second. It’s been ten minutes, and I’m already throbbing with an ache that rolls out, wanting pleasure. Wanting the pleasure only he can give.
I love him. I hate him. Caelian’s a second heartbeat in me. He’s a drive of lust and desire. Stripping down and getting on that table appeals in ways it shouldn’t. The appeal has nothing to do with common sense and everything to do with Caelian Del Rossa.
“I want. A divorce,” I say, swallowing hard afterward.
He stalks up, and I can see he’s hard. He’s got his dick discreetly tucked as best he can, but the problem with having an impressive member is it’s…impressive.
He slams the papers on the table before me, knocking the wine over.
With a sweep of his arm, he clears the table of the flowers, the glasses. Bottles. Things smash on the floor, and I jump, watching as he pulls something from his jacket pocket, slamming it down on the papers so hard, I jolt.
For long moments, I stare, my heart in my throat. It’s my wedding ring, gleaming under the light, a tiny circle of irony on the divorce papers.
I look up at him, barely able to swallow the threatening tears. “We’re getting a divorce.”
“Now, that depends if I sign these goddamn papers, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t be a child.”
“You’re the one acting like a child by running away because you didn’t get your fucking way.”
“I didn’t run away. You gave me no choice.”
“What? Because I don’t buy your father’s lies?”
“Because you couldn’t look past your hate for him and see that I needed you to help protect my brother.”
“Your father is lying,” he grits.
“Maybe he is, but what if he’s not? I’m not taking that chance.” I grab the ring and shove it against his chest, forcing him to take it. “And fuck you for making me choose between you or my brother.”
“You didn’t have to make that choice.”
“Yes!” I snap. “Yes, I had to. And even if this threat on my brother’s life isn’t true, you know as well as I do that one of us would have walked out on this marriage eventually.”
“Not me, New York,” he says, clutching the ring. “Not me.”
“Bullshit. You might act like you’re this independent hotshot who doesn’t need anyone, who doesn’t get told what to do. But you’re a Del Rossa, and loyalty runs through your fucking blood.”
He frowns. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Your family hates me after what happened to Alexius. They blame me, and they will never accept me. I will never be a Del Rossa, not to them.”
“That is complete bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“You are my wife!” His voice rips through the air, slamming against my chest with a thud that knocks the air from me.
I’m speechless, silent, as he moves closer, his eyes fire and thunder. His every move, every breath, it’s all rage and lust—a storm I’m instantly caught in. The mask of a hunter he wears so well makes me tingle and melt, wanting to run and submit.
Caelian stalks me into the wall. No one’s coming in. Not with menus or drinks, not to check if I’m alive and still breathing. He’s a Del Rossa.
“I’ll scream,” I say, my voice trembling. “My guards?—”
“Your guards won’t dare come near that door.” There’s a threat in there somewhere. “You have your guards, and I have mine. Mine are bigger than yours. Meaner.” And there it is.
“You asshole.” I force myself to breathe, and he’s all I smell, that evocative aroma of him I easily get high on, numbing all my resistance with a rush of ecstasy.
With a fierce grip, he takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up at him, my mouth a breath from his.
“Has another man touched you?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.” He smirks as if he expected the lie. Anticipated it. Loves it. It’s all a game to him. “I’ve had you watched every goddamn second since you left.”
My heart hammers.
“Every move you made, you made it because I allowed it.” His voice is low as he enunciates every word, and I swear to God I’m such a fucking sucker because what should offend me, what should freak me the hell out, is making me want him even more. It has my body humming, my blood singing as electric chills flow through every inch of me.
His eyes search mine, his warm breath clinging to my wet lips, and he squeezes his fingers into my cheeks, puckering my mouth, inching closer.
I want him to kiss me.
I need him to kiss me.
Seconds turn to eons, like he’s dragging it out because he’s not the kind of hunter who goes straight for the throat. He savors it, the tension that slices and dices the flesh of his prey. That’s what he gets high on. That’s what feeds his hunger.
His eyes are on mine as he keeps his lips a mere breath from my own, and when they finally touch— a whisper of a touch —our gazes are still locked.
The anticipation is torture, palpable, and we’re both vibrating with a desire that’s a living thing coiling and writhing in the tiny space between our bodies.
His mouth opens a little, our eyes pinned on one another, and when his tongue brushes mine, shockwaves crash down my bones, and I suck in a breath, closing my eyes, expecting him to kiss me. To really kiss me. But he doesn’t, and I don’t want him to.
But I do.
Fuck!