5 | On My Terms
SANTO
Power usually isn’t about violence. Sometimes, it’s about patience—about watching someone realize just how trapped they are and offering them a door that only leads deeper inside.
Fiorella’s eyes flare, her face pale. “What kind of deal?”
“One that benefits us both,” I say, voice low, intimate. “Your brother walks away unharmed, and I gain something I need.”
Her breath trembles. “Which is?”
I tilt my head, studying the panic fluttering at her throat. “A woman by my side. For appearances. Certain men respond better when there’s someone… charming to soften the edges.”
She blinks. “You want me to pretend to be with you?”
“Marry me.” The words leave my mouth like a knife sliding free of its sheath—soft, inevitable, and final.
She jerks back as if I struck her. “That’s insane.”
“It’s practical.” I shrug, unbothered. “You’d have protection, comfort, whatever you need. Your brother walks free. I get a wife who plays the part well and doesn’t ask questions.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes. She presses her palms against her knees, grounding herself. “And behind closed doors? What do you expect of me then?”
I let a faint smile curl at the corner of my mouth. “Whatever you choose. My concern is only what the world sees.”
She exhales, the sound thin and shaking. “You’d put that in writing?”
“Of course.” I gesture lazily toward the side door. “Marco will draw up a contract. You’ll sign it tomorrow.”
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t know if I can find a lawyer by tomorrow, and I’m not signing anything without knowing exactly what I’m getting into.”
That earns a laugh from me, low and genuine. It rumbles in the space between us, and her chin lifts in defiance. “You’re a bold little thing, aren’t you?”
“I’m not stupid,” she shoots back.
“I like that.” I tip my chin at her, eyes heavy on hers. “Pick out a lawyer. I’ll pay.”
She crosses her arms, and for a heartbeat, I catch a glimpse of fire under all that fear. “What about me? Can I add terms and conditions, or do I just have to roll over and take it?”
The words hit lower than she realizes. My pulse flickers, heat crawling up my neck as my eyes flit over her pretty frame again. “That’d be good.”
Her eyes widen at my tone, but before she can stammer out a reply, I slide a card across the desk. “We’ll discuss your terms with lawyers present tomorrow.”
I glance at Marco. “Draft the contract. She’ll come back tomorrow.”
Fiorella rises, her legs shaky but her spine iron-straight. I stand too—because I can’t not—and when she passes, I catch her arm. Not hard—just enough to stop her.
Her breath hitches. Her pulse flutters beneath my thumb.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” I murmur, leaning closer than I should. Her sweet scent settles low in my stomach. “And don’t make me regret my generosity.”
Her chin lifts, defiance still burning under all that fear. “I won’t.”
I release her slowly, letting my fingers drag over her skin before I let go. “We’ll see.”
She walks out without looking back, but the air doesn’t clear when she’s gone. The scent she leaves behind clings to the room—soft and feminine.
I sink back into my chair, watching the door she disappeared through. My pulse hasn’t quite settled.
Control. That’s what I’m known for. The one thing I never lose.
But for the first time in a long while, I’m not sure who just made the deal with who.
----
Most people crumble near me—fold at a mere glance. Some pretend not to care.
And then there are the rare ones—the ones who walk back into the lion’s den wearing silk instead of armor.
Fiorella walks in like that.
She’s dressed simply, hair down in loose waves, chin high. But every step shows how much she’s thought about this. There’s no tremor in her hand when she sets her folder on the table. No hesitation when she meets my eyes.
Her lawyer—some polished city man in a navy suit—clears his throat and starts talking. Clauses, conditions, and protections float by in quick succession. He’s a crumbler—sweating before he’s finished the first sentence.
I don’t interrupt. I just watch her.
She’s the one who wrote most of it—I can tell. The sharp edges are hers.
She’s demanded separate accounts, her own room in my house, full transparency in all dealings that involve her name. Protection for just about anyone she’s ever met.
She’s even included a line that states: ’The marriage shall remain unconsummated unless mutually agreed upon.’
Marco glances at me like he expects an explosion.
But I only smile.
‘Unless mutually agreed upon.’ That tells me everything I need to know. She could’ve left it at ‘unconsummated’, but she feels it too—this dark, unnatural pull between us.
She wants the opportunity to explore it.
“I see you’ve been busy,” I murmur.
Her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t back down. “You said I could add terms.”
“I did.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “And you’ve made them very… thorough.”
Her lawyer tries to chime in again, but I raise a hand. Silence.
“Let me be clear,” I say quietly. “I don’t object to boundaries. I value them. But understand—the moment either of us breaks the terms, the contract is void.”
I let the words hang between us, heavy but not cruel. Then I turn to Marco. “Have the papers redrafted with her amendments. We’ll sign tomorrow.”
The lawyer blinks, surprised. Fiorella only nods—guarded, poised.
When they start to rise, I speak again.
“Stay a moment, amore.”
Her lawyer hesitates, glances at her, then excuses himself. The door shuts behind him with a soft click.
Silence settles between us. The air tightens as something in my chest loosens.
“You think I’m unpredictable,” I say quietly. “That’s smart. You should.”
Her throat moves. “You think I’m scared.”
I tilt my head. “No, dolcezza. I think you’re careful. That’s a good thing.”
Her pulse jumps—visible in her neck.
I rise slowly, crossing to her side of the desk. She doesn’t move, but I can hear her holding her breath.
I reach up—two fingers—tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. My knuckles graze her cheekbone, and she shivers.
It takes effort not to bend down and drag my tongue up the column of that pretty throat of hers.
“Tell me,” I murmur, “was it fear or pride that made you add that last clause?”
She meets my gaze, voice barely steady. “Self-preservation.”
A quiet laugh spills out of me. “Smart.”
I step back, letting her breathe. “Tomorrow, we sign. After that, I suggest you start practicing your smile, Ms. Leoni.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “So what do I tell my friends and family?”
I sit on the edge of my desk, my knee brushing her thigh. “Tell them you fell in love. That you’ve been hiding it for months, but now you can’t stay away anymore. Make it believable.”
She inhales shakily. “Another question, Mr. Valenti?”
“Santo,” I correct.
She repeats it—softly. “Santo.” The sound of my name in her mouth does something I don’t care to examine with anyone else present.
“That was you the other night, wasn’t it?” she asks.
I consider lying—I decide against it.
“I had an event,” I say. “If that’s what you mean.”
She nods, picking at her nail. “Did you see me?”
The air shifts. My gaze darkens. “Were you in pink?”
She looks away. “Yes.”
I let my knee lean against her thigh now—just slightly. Enough to make her look at me again.
“Why did you tip me?”
For a moment, I freeze. Then I move. I walk to the door, and open it for her.
She rises, slow and wary, eyes locked on mine. When she passes, my hand finds her waist—barely there, but enough to make her breath hitch.
I lean in, lips ghosting the shell of her ear. “You look pretty in pink, Fiorella.”
----
We like a girl with a spine, don't we? What do you think of the story so far? ?? How did you like it in there? ??