Chapter 26
Harlow
I refuse to let this faceless man wield any more power over my life than he already has.
The envelope, the photographs, they loop through my mind like a sinister, unrelenting film reel. But I suppress the images, forcing them into the recesses where they belong.
I will not grant him the satisfaction of my fear. I will not allow him to turn me into something fragile. And I damn well won’t let him dictate the way I live.
So, I prepare for the evening.
The gown I’ve chosen is a sublime shade of cream, its backless silhouette sculpting my frame like liquid silk. Delicate diamond strands trail down my spine, catching the light with every subtle movement. The fabric is impossibly fine, so sheer, so ethereal, that wearing anything beneath it is simply out of the question. If I get cold, the evidence will be undeniable.
Dante is going to loathe it.
The thought alone makes my lips curl.
Perfect. Mission accomplished, driving my husband to the brink.
My jet black hair cascades down my back in waves, a stark contrast against the pale dress. My makeup is flawless, sharp liner, dark lashes, lips tinted a deep, sinful red.
Bracelets jingle at my wrist as I grip my clutch, stilettos clicking against the marble as I step out of the bedroom and into the hallway.
Muted voices drift up from downstairs.
As I descend, the sharp click of my heels resonates through the grand foyer.
Dante’s head lifts the moment he hears my approach, his gaze colliding with mine in an instant. The intensity in his eyes is searing, scorching through me with such force that, for a fleeting second, I feel utterly exposed. His jaw tenses. His fingers flex at his sides. Slowly, painstakingly, his gaze drags down the length of my body, taking in every sinful detail.
And then, in an instant, his expression darkens.
By the time I reach the final step, his hand is already there, strong, unwavering, his fingers curling around my wrist with a heat that sears through my skin. His grip is firm, possessive, utterly immovable.
“Go. Change.”
The command is low, edged with authority, a quiet warning that sends a delicious shiver down my spine. The delicate fabric of my gown does little to hide the way my nipples tighten, peaking against the silk, entirely visible beneath its sheer luxury.
I watch as his gaze drops, honing in on my chest with a force that could set the entire room ablaze. For a fleeting second, I wonder if he’s about to snap, if a vein might just rupture from sheer restraint.
Tilting my head, I meet his burning stare with feigned innocence, my voice smooth, teasing.
“Have I done something to displease you?”
His grip tightens.
“Don’t play coy. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
I smile, slow and lazy.
“Enlighten me, husband.”
His nostrils flare.
“You can see right through this fucking dress, Harlow.”
I shrug.
“Sounds like a you problem.”
His jaw tics. His hand snakes around my waist, fingers splaying against my lower back. The warmth of his palm presses against my bare skin, possessive and claiming. I hold his gaze.
“Go. Change. Now.”
His tone is pure authority, hard and unforgiving.
I pretend to consider it, tilting my head. Then I smile sweetly. “No.”
His grip tightens. “Harlow.”
I arch a brow. “Dante.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches violently, like he’s debating whether to throw me over his shoulder or just murder someone on the spot.
I press a hand to his chest, eyes dancing with challenge.
“Would you like to cause a scene in front of your men, or should we leave now?”
His eyes flash dangerously. For a moment, I think he’s going to drag me upstairs and rip the dress off me himself.
Instead, he exhales through his nose, jaw locked so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding. Finally, he releases me.
A slow, victorious smirk curves my lips as I step aside, leaving Dante seething in silence.
Mario is leaning against the wall nearby, smirking. Leonardo stands beside him, watching the exchange with barely contained amusement.
Mario grins.
“You look exquisite, Harlow.”
Dante’s head snaps toward him, eyes murderous.
“Don’t fucking compliment my wife.”
Leonardo chuckles.
“I was going to say the same, but now I fear for my life.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“You both look good yourselves.”
Dante’s glare sharpens as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. His voice drops.
“You think I won’t ruin you simply because you’re my wife?”
A delicious shiver runs down my spine, but I keep my expression composed. As I brush past him, my voice remains smooth, laced with defiance.
“And you think you have that much control over me?”
His low chuckle follows me as we step outside.
Before we reach the car, Mattia comes running toward us, cheeks flushed, his small frame practically vibrating with excitement.
He skids to a stop, looking up at me, then down at my dress. His face turns bright red.
“Uh… you look nice.”
I suppress a smile.
“Only nice?”
His ears turn red.
“Uh… very nice.”
Dante grunts.
“Watch it.”
Mattia grins cheekily.
“Bianca is baking cookies for me,”
he announces proudly.
I place a hand over my heart.
“I’m jealous. I wish I could stay here with you and have a movie night instead of going to this boring party.”
Mattia brightens, laughing. Before I can move, he suddenly throws his arms around me, hugging me tight.
For a moment, I stiffen. Then, slowly, I place a hand on his back, returning the hug.
When we pull away, everyone is watching us. Something in their expressions softens, but it’s gone before I can make sense of it.
***
The ride to the event is swept in silence, the only constant being Dante’s hand resting possessively on my thigh, a silent declaration of ownership. By the time we arrive, a hush falls over the room as we step inside. All eyes turn toward us.
Dante pulls me closer, his grip firm.
He does not take kindly to others admiring what belongs to him. I suppress a smirk, relishing in his silent, simmering jealousy. Let him seethe.
The event is predictably tedious, a carefully curated display of wealth and influence draped in silk and diamonds. As we navigate the room, a parade of women intercepts me, their voices saccharine as they prattle on about charities, exclusive soirées, and whatever else high society pretends to hold in great esteem.
Dante is engrossed in conversation, speaking in low tones with men who thrive on power and influence.
Seizing the opportunity, I lean in slightly.
“I’m going to the powder room.”
His gaze sharpens instantly, dark eyes assessing me. For a moment, he looks as though he might object, but before he can, another man draws his attention, forcing him back into the discussion. With an irritated sigh, he flicks his fingers, silently instructing Mario to follow.
I turn, striding toward the restroom, he and a few guards trailing at a discreet yet inescapable distance.
Inside, I take a moment, washing my hands as I exhale slowly, centring myself. Then, the sharp click of heels shatters the silence. I glance up at the mirror, and my stomach knots.
Marta.
Standing beside a group of women, immaculate, poised, every inch the picture of refinement, she washes her hands, as though utterly unaware of my presence.
But I know better.
Because she speaks. Just loud enough for me to hear.
“Last night was intense.”
She muses.
My hands still.
“Dante was insatiable, as always.”
She sighs dramatically.
“It’s been this way for years. He always comes back to me.”
My blood runs cold. One woman beside her shifts uncomfortably, darting me an apologetic glance. Marta smirks, eyes gleaming with cruel delight.
“That wife of his? She’s nothing more than temporary.”
She flicks her hair over one shoulder, her tone effortlessly dismissive.
“He’ll grow bored soon enough. He always does.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the sink, knuckles paling with restraint.
Bitch.
I remain composed.
I do not engage.
I do not grant her the satisfaction.
But inside, rage burns like an inferno. I can feel Marta watching me, waiting for a reaction. She’s playing a game, one I refuse to lose.
So I take my time. Slowly, I reach into my clutch and pull out my red lipstick. I twist it up, the deep crimson catching the light as I drag it across my lips, never breaking eye contact with her reflection.
When I’m satisfied, I snap the lid back on, tuck it into my bag, and turn to face her.
My smile is slow, wicked.
“So, I wouldn’t call myself insecure,”
I start casually, feigning thoughtfulness.
“I mean, after all… he’s the one that insisted.”
Marta’s smug expression falters. She blinks. “What?”
I tilt my head, tapping a manicured finger against my chin.
“Oh, he was quite insistent. Almost to the point of begging, really.”
I sigh theatrically.
“I know, I know, he doesn’t seem the type. But, as it turns out, appearances can be deceiving.”
Marta’s brows knit together, confusion flickering across her face.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I smile.
“Why, about getting his privates locked, of course.”
I wink, my voice effortlessly smooth as I add.
“With a key and everything.”
A stunned silence settles over the room. The other women exchange wary glances, while Marta’s expression twists between disbelief and mounting irritation.
I continue, relishing every second.
“To be perfectly clear,”
I say, my tone dripping with faux sympathy.
“my husband practically begged me to have his dick locked up. To prove himself to me.”
With unhurried elegance, I gesture toward my clutch, as if retrieving something of great importance.
“I have the key right here.”
My gaze sweeps over her, assessing. "I don’t presume you have one, do you?"
Marta’s lips part, but no words escape.
I tilt my head, feigning curiosity, my expression the picture of innocent inquiry.
“No? Then it would seem this grand tale of yours is nothing more than fiction. How unfortunate.”
Still, she remains silent.
I click my tongue, turning my attention to the gathered women.
“Spinning tales for attention? How utterly crass.”
I gasp, pressing a hand delicately over my heart.
“Surely, ladies, we can all agree, such behaviour is terribly unbecoming, no?”
The other woman shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Marta with something bordering on pity. Satisfied, I smirk, stepping past Marta and exiting the bathroom with the same confidence I walked in with.
Mario is waiting outside, arms crossed, a smirk plastered across his face.
“Well played, signora. Well played.”
I roll my eyes but wink at him before walking off.
As the evening drags on. Dante and I move through the crowd, playing our roles flawlessly. He introduces me to men who bore me with business talk and women who flash fake smiles. I sip my drink, feigning interest, nodding at the right moments.
Eventually, Dante is drawn into yet another conversation, engaged in weighty discussions with men. Mind numbingly bored, I lean in slightly.
“I’ll be at the bar.”
I murmur, my tone smooth.
His grip on my waist tightens, just for a fraction of a second. He wants to follow. I can feel it. But before he can act, another man speaks, diverting his attention, forcing his focus elsewhere. I smirk and slip off.
Once at the bar, I take a seat, sipping my martini as I watch my husband from across the room.
He looks like a king among men, his broad shoulders encased in a sharp black tux, his movements powerful.
And then, as if conjured from thin air, Marta materializes. I watch as she boldly slips her hand into the crook of his arm, pressing herself closer, an intrusion cloaked in sheer audacity. Dante doesn’t register it at first, too engrossed in conversation, his focus elsewhere.
She leans in, murmuring something into his ear. His brows furrow, only now does he seem to realize who it is. Without hesitation, he removes her hand, an unspoken dismissal. But Marta isn’t finished. She places a hand against his chest, her fingers trailing downward, brazen. Then, as if emboldened by her own impudence, her hand drifts lower, fingers trailing over the fine leather of his belt, venturing dangerously close to his cock.
I freeze.
Without a moment’s pause, I turn away, unwilling to bear witness to such a spectacle.
A sharp, vicious ache cleaves through my chest, slicing through me like the edge of a finely honed blade. Tears prickle at my eyes, hot and unwanted. I lock them tight, so fucking tight because I refuse to let them fall.
This is precisely why I don’t succumb to emotions.
I grip my glass so tightly I’m almost surprised it doesn’t splinter beneath my hold. This is why I’ve always been cautious, why I’ve kept my walls fortified, because, in the end, people will always reveal exactly who they are.
And yet, beneath the ache, and the quiet devastation clawing at my chest, anger stirs, unforgiving and raw.
I am not a woman who will ever be publicly disgraced, much less reduced to a spectacle. If my husband believes he can stand idly by while another woman puts her hands on him, in front of his wife, no less, he is sorely mistaken.
I am mere seconds from rising when a presence slides into the seat beside me. The first thing I notice is the cologne, expensive, yet overindulgent. Then, the slow, practiced smirk. He’s handsome enough. Unremarkable, yet polished. But there’s something… off.
With a wave, he signals to the bartender.
“Another martini for the exquisite lady.”
I arch a brow, assessing him with quiet scrutiny.
“What’s a woman as captivating as you doing here all alone?”
I barely resist the urge to sigh at the sheer predictability of it.
Still, the situation calls for a game.
I lean in, my voice a quiet whisper laced with amusement.
“You saw the ring on my finger.”
His smirk remains unwavering, insolent.
“And yet, you still want something that belongs to another?”
He mirrors my movement, closing the distance, his breath warm against my skin as he murmurs.
“I enjoy taking what belongs to others. Toying with what isn’t mine.”
His voice drips with arrogance, with blatant disrespect, and then, his fingers drift, tracing against the exposed skin of my back. Just as I prepare to put him in his place, he makes a mistake.
A grave one.
His hand dares to slide lower, skimming over my hip, hovering at the curve of my ass. I feel the shift, the intention, he’s about to squeeze.
Rage coils in my chest, a sharp, burning thing, as I brace myself to knock this arrogant bastard into the floor, another hand intervenes.
Large. Rough. Calloused.
It clamps down on the man’s wrist with an unforgiving grip, halting him mid action. I glance up, straight into the enraged, murderous eyes of my husband. His entire frame wound tight with pure, unrelenting wrath. He is so utterly, seething with fury it should be illegal.
Dante’s grip tightens around the man’s wrist, his strength an unspoken promise of devastation. The pressure builds, and I swear I hear bones groan in protest before, with one fluid motion, he wrenches the arm upward and slams it against the bar with a force that rattles the glasses.
Before anyone can react, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot rips through the air, sharp and deafening. A strangled scream follows as crimson splatters across the gleaming bar, staining its pristine surface. A second shot fires off just as swiftly, another agonized cry tearing through the stunned silence as fresh blood seeps from the newly inflicted wound.
The room falls into a suffocating stillness, tension thick enough to smother. All eyes remain fixed on the scene before them, horrified, frozen in collective shock.
With an air of dominance, Dante slides the gun back into its holster, as if the entire ordeal were nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience. Broad shoulders roll back, tension dissipating as he turns to face the room, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd with chilling detail.
“Everyone, listen closely, and do so carefully, because I do not repeat myself.”
The words cut through the stunned silence.
A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips, dark amusement dancing behind those eyes. His tone deepens, threading with something far more perilous as he gestures toward me.
“This woman here?”
His voice fluid.
“She is Mrs. Harlow Salvatore. My fucking wife.”
His gaze sweeps across the room.
“Take a good look. Etch her face into your memory, because it’ll be the last thing you see if you ever forget who she belongs to. No one touches her. No one even fucking looks at her unless they have a death wish.”
The room stirs, the shifting of bodies almost imperceptible as hushed whispers ripple outward like a wildfire consuming dry earth.
Towering over the wretched fool, Dante’s voice drops lower, each syllable laced with quiet destruction.
“Now, run.”
A strangled groan escapes the man as he clutches his mangled hands, his entire body trembling under the weight of agony. Panic sets in, his breaths uneven, ragged, as he stumbles backward, desperation stripping away what little composure he had left. In his frantic attempt to retreat, his foot catches, and he collapses, hitting the floor with a graceless thud. The impact is pitiful, yet not nearly as humiliating as the way he scrambles upright, hands slick with blood, legs barely holding him steady.
Dante exhales, slow and unimpressed.
“Fucking tedious.”
His gaze remains impassive, watching the man flounder. As he stumbles toward the door, desperate to flee, Dante’s men intercept him, gripping his arms in an iron hold. My husband tilts his head, scanning the room, his voice a booming command that cuts through the thick silence.
“You didn’t think I’d gone soft and let a man walk free after daring to touch what’s mine, did you?”
From across the room, Mario and Leonardo observe in silence, their posture unbothered, relaxed, yet there is nothing idle about the way they watch. The crowd is frozen, as if afraid that even blinking will set my husband off.
Dante turns sharply, gripping my hand without hesitation, his movements firm and decisive. Without another word, he begins walking toward the exit. With his grip firm around mine, I am pulled behind him, trailing in his wake, my heels clicking as I try to match his pace.
And then, I stop.
I rip my hand from his, planting my feet firmly in place, refusing to be led like some obedient little wife.
Dante’s steps halt immediately, his broad shoulders stiffening before he slowly turns to face me. His brows pull together, confusion flickering in his stormy eyes, his sharp jaw tightening as he tries to decipher my sudden resistance.
I smile at him, sweet yet pointed. With slow movements, I step forward, closing the space between us, letting the warmth of my body press against his.
My fingers trail lightly over the luxurious fabric of his tuxedo, the custom tailoring moulding perfectly to the hard, defined muscles beneath. His breath hitches, a small, involuntary reaction, barely noticeable, but I catch it. His gaze drags over my face, heavy with something dark and dangerous. I slide his jacket aside, my fingers slipping into the Italian leather holster strapped against his side.
His body tenses beneath my fingertips, his muscles coiling tight, as if torn between letting me continue and stopping me in my tracks. His hand reaches for me, a reflex, an instinct, but before he can touch me, I step back, taking the gun with me. The weight of it settles into my palm familiar and comforting.
The air in the room shifts, growing heavier, charged with an almost suffocating tension, as if even the walls themselves are holding their breath. If it was silent before, now it is deathly still.
“In this marriage, husband, we are equals.”
My words slice through the thick silence. I tilt my head, my lips curling into the ghost of a smile.
“Whatever you give, you shall receive in turn.”
Without warning, I turn and pull the trigger.
The gunshot rips through the room, a piercing, ear splitting scream following. Marta collapses, crashing onto the floor, her manicured fingers clawing at her shoulder, blood blooming across the delicate fabric of her gown.
Gasps ripple through the room, and yet, despite their horror, not a single one of them moves.
I turn back toward Dante. His expression is unreadable at first, carefully composed, sculpted from stone. But then slowly, ever so slightly, the corner of his lips quirks up.
He’s smiling.
But not just any smile.
No, this is something else entirely, a look of dark satisfaction, of unmistakable, unrepentant pride.
My psycho husband is actually proud of me.
I step closer, pressing the still-warm gun into his hand, amusement flickering in my gaze.
“A demonstration of equilibrium, wouldn’t you agree?”
Dante’s fingers curl around the weapon, his grip tightening, eyes flashing with primal need. Before I can take a step back, his hand is in my hair, fisting it, yanking me forward with a force that steals my breath. I collide against his chest, the air between us turning electric, molten. Then his mouth crashes onto mine, destructive, forceful, a kiss meant to consume. His tongue strokes into my mouth, claiming, dominating, demanding my response. And I give it, because how could I not?
I meet him with equal hunger, nails scraping against his suit, tugging him closer, biting back a moan as he deepens it. When we finally break apart, his breath is ragged, his smirk pure arrogance. But I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my surrender.
Yet.
I turn back toward the room, finding Marta’s wide, disbelieving gaze locked on mine. She’s shaking, blood soaking into the fabric of her dress. I tilt my head, a mocking smile teasing the corners of my lips.
“I didn’t hit anything important. No arteries, no major damage.”
I pause, letting the tension linger before my lips curve just slightly.
“Should I be expecting a thank you?”
Marta’s face twists in rage. “You—”
She stops herself, seething when Dante steps forward.
“Choose your next words wisely. Because if you test my patience, I won’t hesitate to finish what my wife started, only I’ll be aiming for your head.”
His words slice through the air like a guillotine.
Marta flinches.
I place a hand on his arm.
“I fight my own battles, husband.” I say.
His jaw tightens, his lips parting, ready to protest, but I don’t let him. I turn back to the room, my gaze cutting through them, my lips curving ever so slightly.
“Let this serve as a reminder to you all. If you think you can touch my husband without consequences, think again.”
Marta’s gasp is barely audible over the pounding silence.
I turn on my heel, heading for the exit. Dante falls into step beside me. I can feel the weight of his gaze, searing into my skin. Yet, I refuse to yield. I keep my eyes forward, my posture poised, denying him the satisfaction of my reaction.
Because the stunt he pulled today?
It will cost him.
However, I won’t deny the truth. My body still hums with the remnants of our kiss, my lips tingling from the brutal force of it. I’m furious, but I’m also burning for him.
As we approach the car, the weight of the night settles between us. Mario and Leonardo stand nearby, their sharp gazes flicking between us, smirks tugging at their lips, but they say nothing.
Dante opens the car door, waiting for me to step inside. But before I do, I turn to face him fully, my voice calm, deceptively soft.
“You let her get close.”
Dante’s eyes darken. I take a step forward, closing the space between us.
“She touched you.”
My voice dips, each syllable laced with quiet venom.
“She whispered in your ear. And you let her.”
His jaw tightens, but the glint in his eyes is something else entirely, dangerous. Heated. Amused.
A slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips, sinful and taunting.
“Shall I remind you, wife, that your actions were a mirror of mine?”
His voice is a decadent drawl, soaked in arrogance.
“But consider your point acknowledged.”
I arch a brow, not breaking his gaze, not backing down.
“Yes, but I imagine your men already have him bound in the back of a car, en route to his execution, while she still draws breath.”
Dante exhales, slow and deep, like he enjoys the game we’re playing. His fingers flex, as if itching to grab me.
“He laid a hand on you, his fate is sealed. And if you wish it, wife, simply say the word, and she will cease to exist.”
His words are final.
I tilt my head, my own smile wicked.
“Well, no one touches my husband either.”
I move closer, so close the scent of him wraps around me. His pupils dilate, his gaze flickering between my eyes and my mouth. I catch the soft flesh between my teeth, just enough to make his nostrils flare, enough to make him snap.
“Consider this your only warning husband, should there be a next time a woman touches you, you’ll share her fate. And rest assured, I won’t be so generous as to spare anything vital.”
Dante’s breath sharpens. His gaze dips to my mouth again, watching as I wet my lips, knowing exactly what I’m doing to him. His hands twitch at his sides. That barely contained hunger. That raw, possessive energy vibrating off him.
“Your jealousy turns me on, leonessa.”
His voice is a dark promise whispered against bared skin.
I make a show of dragging my gaze over him, savouring every inch. Over the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his jacket strains against his frame. Then, my eyes drop lower, stopping at the thick outline of his cock, hard and straining against his slacks. I lift a brow, my smirk turning taunting. “Clearly.”
A slow, dangerous silence stretches between us, crackling like a live wire. I don’t wait for a response. I slide into the car, Dante following, his presence a smouldering storm beside me.
For now, he treads on thin ice.
But make no mistake, Dante Salvatore will be exactly where I want him.
On his knees.
Face buried between my thighs.
Tongue worshipping, making amends.
That, I can guarantee.