Chapter 15
ROSALINA
I know we are playing with fire the moment Luca catches my eye across the dinner table and grins.
It has been a week since the disaster at the Salvatore compound, and Dante has been wound tighter than a spring ever since.
He moves through the house like a storm cloud, all sharp edges and barely controlled tension, snapping at phone calls and grinding his jaw through meetings with Frank Lucas that apparently are not going well.
Even Gabriel has been giving him space, which tells me exactly how volatile Dante's mood is.
But tonight, sitting at the formal dining table with all three of them while some chef Dante hired makes an elaborate Italian dinner, Luca apparently decides that what Dante needs is not space.
What he needs is to be fucked with.
And judging by the wicked gleam in Luca's eyes, he has decided I am going to help.
"This is delicious," Luca says, taking a bite of whatever pasta course we are on—I have lost count. "Really incredible. Do you not think so, Rosalina?"
There is something in the way he says my full name, slow and deliberate, that makes me look up from my plate.
He is watching me with barely concealed amusement, and then his foot brushes against mine under the table.
Oh.
Oh, we are doing this.
I glance at Dante, who is sitting at the head of the table looking like he might put his fist through something, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
Then I look back at Luca and smile sweetly.
"It is good," I agree. "Though I think the sauce could use more garlic, don't you, Luca?"
"Definitely more garlic," Luca says seriously, his foot sliding higher along my calf. "Dante, you should tell the chef. Rosalina has very refined taste."
Dante's eyes narrow fractionally. "Does she?"
"Oh yes," Luca continues, and I can hear the laughter threatening in his voice. "Very particular about what she likes. She is not afraid to ask for exactly what she wants, are you, Lina?"
I press my lips together to keep from smiling. "I have learned that being direct gets better results."
"Direct," Dante repeats, his voice flat. "Right."
Gabriel, sitting to Dante's left, is watching this exchange with poorly concealed amusement, his eyes flicking between the three of us like he is watching a tennis match.
"Speaking of being direct," I say, reaching for my wine glass, "Luca, did you ever return that hoodie I borrowed?"
"You mean the one you stole?"
"Borrowed. Without asking. Temporarily."
"You have had it for three weeks, Fiorella."
"Exactly. Temporarily."
Dante sets down his fork with more force than necessary. "Are you two finished?"
"Finished with what?" Luca asks innocently.
"Whatever this is." Dante gestures between us with a wave of his hand.
"We are just having a conversation," I say, blinking at him with exaggerated innocence. "Is that not allowed at dinner?"
"You are trying to annoy me."
"Are we succeeding?" Luca asks.
Dante's eyes flash dangerously, and for a moment I think maybe we have pushed too far, maybe this was a terrible idea and Dante is about to actually lose his temper.
But then something shifts in his expression. The anger does not disappear, but it transforms into something else—something darker and more focused and infinitely more dangerous.
"You want to play games," he says softly, and the change in his tone makes my pulse jump. "Fine. We will play games."
Luca's foot freezes against my leg.
"Dante—" I start.
"Finish your dinner," Dante interrupts, his voice calm now, controlled, which somehow makes it more threatening. "Both of you. And do not say another word unless I give you permission."
The command in his voice is absolute, undeniable, and I feel it settle over me like a weight.
Luca apparently feels it too, because he picks up his fork without argument.
We eat in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the clink of silverware against plates and the quiet footsteps of the chef moving in and out with new courses.
The tension at the table has shifted entirely—no longer Dante's frustrated stress, but something electric and charged that makes every breath feel deliberate.
I am acutely aware of every movement Dante makes.
The way he cuts his food with precise, controlled motions.
The way his eyes track me when I reach for my wine glass.
The way his jaw is still tight but his shoulders have relaxed slightly, like he has found his footing again, like he has regained control of the situation.
"Luca," Dante says finally, his voice cutting through the silence.
"Yes?" Luca's voice is carefully neutral.
"Put your hand on Rosalina's thigh."
I nearly choke on my wine.
Luca goes very still beside me. "Dante—"
"Did I ask for commentary?" Dante's eyes are locked on me now, dark and intense. "Put your hand on her thigh. Now."
I feel Luca's hand settle on my leg, warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and my breath catches.
"Higher," Dante says.
Luca's hand slides up, fingers spanning the width of my thigh, and I have to grip the edge of the table to keep my composure.
"You wanted to play," Dante says, his voice soft and dangerous. "So we will play. But you need to understand something, Flower. I am always in control. Even when you think you are winning, I am the one deciding how this game ends."
His gaze shifts to Luca. "Make her squirm."
"Dante—" I start, but the word dies when Luca's fingers trace a pattern on my inner thigh, light and teasing, and my legs press together instinctively.
"No," Dante says sharply. "Keep your legs apart, Rosalina."
I force myself to relax, to open my legs slightly, and Luca takes immediate advantage, his hand sliding higher, fingers brushing the edge of my underwear through my dress.
"Good girl," Dante murmurs, and the praise sends heat flooding through me. "Now. Gabriel. Move her chair closer to Luca."
Gabriel stands without a word, moving around the table to where I am sitting. He grips the back of my chair and pulls it closer to Luca's in one smooth motion, eliminating the space between us.
Luca's hand has better access now, and he uses it, fingers tracing higher, teasing, while I try desperately to maintain some semblance of composure.
"Look at me," Dante commands, and my eyes snap to his. "Do not look away. I want to see your face when he touches you."
Luca's fingers find the edge of my underwear, slipping beneath the fabric, and I gasp, my hands gripping the table hard enough that my knuckles go white.
"There she is," Dante says softly, a satisfied smile curving his mouth. "There is the girl who thought she could tease me at my own dinner table."
"Dante—" I gasp out his name as Luca's fingers find exactly the right spot, moving in slow, deliberate circles. "Please—"
"Please what?" Dante leans back in his chair, watching me with dark, hungry eyes. "Please stop? Please continue? You are going to have to be more specific, Flower."
Luca's fingers press harder, move faster, and my hips lift involuntarily off the chair, chasing the sensation.
"Stay still," Dante commands. "If you move again, I will tell him to stop."
I force myself to go rigid, every muscle in my body fighting against the instinct to move, to rock against Luca's hand, to get more friction, more pressure, more everything.
"Better," Dante says. "Luca. Slower."
Luca's movements slow to an agonizing pace, and I make a sound that is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
"You thought you were in control tonight," Dante continues conversationally, like he is discussing the weather instead of orchestrating my unraveling at the dinner table. "You thought you could provoke me, push my buttons, test my limits. But you forgot something very important, Rosalina."
His eyes bore into mine, dark and intense and absolutely uncompromising.
"I am always in control. Of this house. Of this family. Of you." His voice drops lower. "Especially of you."
Luca's fingers press exactly right, and I arch forward, a moan escaping before I can stop it.
"That is it," Dante murmurs. "Let me hear you. Let me see what he is doing to you."
"Dante—" My voice breaks on his name. "I can't—I need—"
"I know what you need." He tilts his head slightly. "But you do not get to take it. You get what I give you, when I give it to you, exactly how I decide to give it."
Gabriel has returned to his seat, and I can feel him watching, can feel all three of them focused on me with an intensity that should be mortifying but instead makes everything more intense.
"Luca," Dante says. "Make her come."
Luca's fingers move with sudden purpose, and the change in pressure and speed makes my entire body tense. I can feel the orgasm building, can feel myself getting closer, my breathing coming faster, my hands gripping the table edge until my fingers ache.
"Eyes on me," Dante reminds me, and I force myself to keep looking at him, to hold his gaze as Luca's hand works between my legs, while I fall apart in front of all three of them.
"That is it," Dante says softly. "Let go. Show me who controls your pleasure."
Luca presses harder, moves faster, and I shatter, the orgasm ripping through me with an intensity that makes me cry out, my body going rigid, my eyes locked on Dante's face while I come apart under Luca's touch.
When I finally come back to myself, gasping for air, my whole body trembling, Dante is smiling—a slow, satisfied smile that makes it very clear he has proven his point.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Now you understand."
Luca withdraws his hand slowly, and I slump in my chair, boneless and dazed.
Dante stands, moving around the table with deliberate, unhurried movements. When he reaches me, he cups my face in his hands, tilting my head back so I have to look up at him.
"Do you want more?" he asks softly.
"Yes," I whisper, because lying seems pointless when I just came at the dinner table under his direction.
His thumb strokes my cheek, a reward. “Then stand up.”