Chapter 7 #2
"Like your wife?" I finished.
"Like a fucking masterpiece."
His hand traced the diamond necklace I'd found on the dresser, fingers grazing my collarbone and raising goosebumps.
"Thank you," I said. "For sending Piero."
Cesare's hands stilled. "He told you everything you need to know?"
"About Viktor. About what tonight really means." I paused. "About you, actually."
His jaw tightened, gray eyes narrowing. "What did he say about me?"
"That you spent two hours finding the perfect dress. That you personally selected the earrings. That you called him at six a.m. because you were worried about me."
"Piero talks too much."
"Does he? Or are you just not used to people seeing past your masks?"
He turned to face me fully. "What I do or don't do for you is strategic, Paola. Don't confuse necessity with sentiment."
"Right. Strategic," I said softly. "Like this morning was strategic?"
His eyes darkened. "This morning was inevitable."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
Finally, he continued, all business: "Tonight isn't a celebration. It's a reminder. To my allies that I'm still strong, to my enemies that I'm still dangerous."
"And what am I? What do you need me to be?"
"You're proof that I can secure what I want. That the Lombardo alliance holds." Cesare stepped closer, his fingers skimming over my waist, leaving a wake of heat and want.
"Are you ready for this?" he asked. "Every Don in the Northeast will be there. All measuring me. And by extension, measuring you."
I thought about what Piero said: You're a Monti now. Act like it.
"I'm ready," I said. And surprisingly, I meant it.
In the limo, I watched the city pass through tinted windows. Cesare was on his phone, speaking in rapid Italian, sharp and commanding.
My hands shook. I clasped them in my lap.
He noticed. Ended his call, took my hand.
"You'll be perfect."
"How do you know?"
"Because you were perfect at the wedding. You've been perfect at everything I've asked you to do. It’s like you were made for this, whether you knew it or not."
"Even this morning?"
His eyes darkened. "Especially this morning."
Heat flooded through me.
"Why did you choose today?" he asked. "You had four more days."
"I don't know. It felt... right."
"Regrets?"
"No. Confusion. Questions. But not regret."
He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my knuckles. "Good."
The limo slowed.
"Last chance to prepare," Cesare said. "These men are predators. They'll smell fear, insecurity. Show them neither."
"And if I can't?"
"You can. You're stronger than you think. You're a Monti. That means something."
"Remember," he continued, "tonight you're the symbol of the Lombardo-Monti alliance. You represent peace between families that have been at war for three generations."
"No pressure."
His lips quirked. "Just stay close. Show them you're not afraid."
"But I am afraid."
"Then lie convincingly. That's what power is."
The door opened. Cesare stepped out, then extended his hand. I took it, stepping into a world I'd never imagined.
Inside the club was opulent—old world elegance, dark woods, leather, cigars and expensive whiskey.
And men. Everywhere. Men in suits with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
The room quieted when Cesare entered. All eyes turned to us.
Cesare's hand was firm on my lower back—possessive, grounding, claiming me in front of everyone. We moved through the room. Men approached with greetings, calculating looks that made my skin crawl.
I smiled, nodded, and played my part. Then across the room, I saw him.
Viktor Kozlov, watching us with ice-blue eyes, a crystal tumbler in his hand.
Our gazes locked. He raised his glass in a mocking toast. Then he started walking toward us.
"Cesare," I murmured.
"I see him." His hand tightened. "Stay close. Don't react."
Viktor approached with a beautiful blonde woman—model-perfect, with cold eyes. Probably a version of what Cesare thought he’d be getting with the alliance. And instead, it was taking everything in me not to tremble under his protective touch.
"Cesare. How wonderful to see you." Viktor's accent was thick. "And your lovely bride. We didn’t get to speak much at the wedding."
He took my hand, brought it to his lips. His kiss lingered too long, as it had that night.
"Viktor Kozlov," he introduced himself. "And this is Irina."
"Mrs. Monti," Viktor said, still holding my hand. "You are even more beautiful up close. Cesare is very lucky man."
There was something in his tone—innuendo? Threat?
"I'm the lucky one," I managed, pulling my hand back.
Viktor's smile widened. "Of course. Though I wonder... did you know what you were agreeing to? Or were you surprised by the arrangement?"
The question was pointed. Deliberate. He knew something.
Biance wouldn’t have been surprised by the arrangement because she would’ve been involved in it…
so did that mean Viktor knew who I really was?
I frowned as something came to mind, some thought–an echo of Bianca’s voice, though I couldn’t catch the words.
Cesare's entire body had gone rigid beside me. His enemy’s eyes gleamed with malicious amusement. "Ah, but forgive me. I ask too many questions."
He stepped back, that predatory smile never wavering. "Enjoy the evening, Mrs. Monti. I'm sure we'll talk again very soon." His gaze traveled over me with deliberate slowness, making my skin crawl. "I have so many questions about you. So many... curiosities about how a bride comes to her wedding."
The emphasis on those last words sent ice down my spine.
Then he walked away, Irina's heels clicking beside him on the marble floor.
I realized I'd been holding my breath, my lungs burning.
"What just happened?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the chamber music.
Cesare's response came low and deadly, each word a shard of ice: "He knows. Or suspects enough to be dangerous. Either way, we have a serious fucking problem."