8 | Power Play
SANTO
I feel the shift in the air before she even enters the room.
Fiorella steps into the room like a little deer stepping into a meadow, a little unsure and on high alert for predators lurking in the dark.
I’m not hiding though—sitting at my usual spot at the head of the table, staring her down.
She hesitates, then steels herself and settles at the far end—a world away from me. I let a grin form, just enough to unsettle her.
She folds her hands in her lap, her eyes darting toward the door every few minutes.
“Expecting someone?” The words come out smooth, taunting.
She swallows. “We haven’t signed the contract yet.”
“I don’t do business on an empty stomach, amore.”
As if summoned, Francesca enters with the dinner cart. She glances from me to Fiorella—twenty feet and a lifetime apart—but says nothing.
Good woman.
She plates our dinner quickly and efficiently—truffle risotto, roasted asparagus, and saffron rosemary focaccia, offset by a crisp oaked chardonnay.
I don’t speak. Fiorella doesn’t either.
Silence is a weapon, and right now, I’m sharpening it on her nerves.
When she finally looks up, I’m already watching her. She startles—tries to play it off. She’s getting better at that.
I set my fork down. “Tomorrow,” I say, voice even, “you’ll come with me. We’re meeting the Morescos for dinner. You’ll sit beside me. Smile pleasantly. Don’t interrupt, don’t speak unless I ask you to.”
She just stares blankly.
“I’ll handle the conversation,” I add. “You just need to make it look real.”
That earns me a faint lift of her chin. A spark—small, but alive.
“I have to work tomorrow.”
“Amore, you don’t need to work anymore. I’ll leave my credit card. Quit your job.”
Her eyes darken. “It’s not about money, Mr. Valenti. It’s my family’s restaurant. I can’t just… quit. They need me.”
“They can hire someone else, no?”
Something changes in her eyes. “You don’t actually expect me to pull back fully, do you? I already gave up my apartment and roommates.”
“I don’t know, bella. Looks like you get to keep your brother alive. Isn’t that enough?”
She bites her lip, eyes flicking down to her plate. Her throat works as she swallows. “It is. Thank you, Mr. Valenti.”
“Santo.”
She exhales. “Thank you, Santo.”
I should like this. The obedience. The quiet.
It should work in my favor if she learns early who holds the reins.
But the lack of fight in her eyes scratches somewhere deep inside my chest.
“You can keep your job,” I say finally.
She looks up, searching my face.
“At the restaurant. And the modeling. As long as it doesn’t interfere with my business, I don’t care how you spend your days.”
She leans back, folding her arms. “I can go see my friends?”
I rub my temples. “Sì, Fiorella.”
“How about other men?”
That strikes me square in the chest. Jealousy flares, hot and ugly. “No, not other men.”
She cocks a brow, challenging me. “I thought you didn’t care.”
My palms flatten on the table, heat seeping into the polished wood. “I care about appearances, dolcezza.”
She flicks her hair back, smug. “I guess I’ll just have to be really sneaky then.”
Something in me goes still.
Not anger—anger burns hot. This is colder.
A deep, lethal quiet that swallows the room whole.
My jaw tightens. My fists clench once. Then I lean back, watching her like she’s just handed me a loaded gun and dared me to pull the trigger.
“Sneaky,” I repeat. My tone is calm, flat. “You think I wouldn’t notice, fiore?”
Her smile falters. She starts to speak, but I keep going.
“Let me explain something to you,” I murmur, rising from my chair. “If you were mine, you wouldn’t have to sneak. You wouldn’t want to. Because there’d be no room left in that pretty head of yours for anyone else.”
I circle the table slowly, closing the space between us, each step measured, controlled. The air thickens, her breath quickens.
“But you’re not mine,” I continue. “Not really. Not yet.” I stop beside her, lowering my voice until it’s a whisper that scrapes the edge of threat. “So if you’re thinking of being… clever—if you think I’d let some other man put his hands on what the world already knows belongs to me—”
I let the sentence hang half-finished, boring my gaze into hers.
She swallows hard, whispering, “You said you didn’t care.”
I tilt my head, eyes on her mouth. “I don’t. About most things.” Then, quieter: “But I’d care about that.”
The silence after is electric. She takes a shuddered breath, then looks away.
Good.
I step back, restoring some of the distance. “You can go where you like,” I tell her, voice once again smooth. “Shop. See your friends. Spend my money.” A pause. “But no men.”
I sink into the chair closest to hers, at the corner. “Now eat.”
I don’t move until she’s taken a bite, fork trembling slightly. Francesca suddenly appears beside us with my plate and glass. She sets them down without a word, then disappears again.
We eat in silence, my eyes never leaving her. Once we clear our plates and drain our wine, Francesca swoops in with dessert. I wait until she’s gone until I speak.
“So, tomorrow.” I let the pause linger. “You’ll need to be convincing. Sell the part. Act like my fiancée.”
She nods slowly.
“Think you can make it look believable?”
Another nod. “I do it all the time at gigs.”
“Good,” I murmur. I don’t look away. I want her squirming under the weight of my gaze, unsure if I’m still testing her or just enjoying the view.
She shifts in her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “So, tomorrow,” she says after a beat, her voice too careful. “My shift starts at twelve. I’ll probably work out in the morning and leave by eleven so I can Uber to my old place and pick up some stuff I left on my way in.”
“No Uber. You can pick a car from the garage.”
Her brows furrow. “Pick a car?”
“Get the keys from Annabelle, she’s in the office in the west wing. Or tell Marco what type of car you want, if mine aren’t to your liking.”
She laughs, an unbelieving, breathy sound. “Yeah, okay.” She rolls her eyes.
I shrug. “Or have Matteo drive you. No Ubers or taxis though. Say it.”
She shifts. “No Ubers or taxis.”
“Così, brava.”
I lift two fingers and crook them once. “The papers, please, Francesca.”
A moment later, a folder appears beside me.
I flick it open, glance through the pages out of habit, and slide the stack and a pen across the table toward her. “Read it carefully,” I say. “This contract is binding.”
Fiorella swallows, fingertips hesitating on the crisp edge of the paper. “My lawyer went through the amendments this afternoon.”
I nod once. “And?”
“He said they’re all in there.”
“Good.” I lean back, studying her. “So sign.”
She looks at me for a long moment, that heat flickering back to life behind her eyes.
She lifts the first paper, and reads. It takes her five minutes to scan the whole thing, her pretty face paling with each new page.
Then she presses the tip of the pen to the paper and writes her name and signs the dotted line.
It’s a neat signature—controlled and elegant.
She sets the pen down like it might burn her if she holds on too long.
The silence that settles over us feels thick and charged. I lean back in my chair, watching her the way a wolf watches a doe who’s only just realized the forest is quiet for a reason.
“è fatto,” I say softly. It’s done.
Her eyes flick to mine, searching for something. Approval, maybe. Reassurance.
Instead, I reach forward, drag the contract closer. My thumb smudges the edge of her signature. Her name beside mine—it looks right.
“You understand what this means, sì?” The words come out lower than I intend them to.
She swallows. “I know what I signed.”
I slide the stack of paper back into the folder and close it. “You belong to me now, piccola fiore.”
She doesn’t move, but her pulse gives her away—fluttering hard at the base of her throat.
“From this point on, when they look at you, they’ll see me. And when they look at me—” I let my gaze drop, linger on her mouth— “they’ll see you.”
Her chin tips up, defiant. “You make it sound like a threat.”
“Call it what you will,” I murmur, eyes still on her lips. “You’re mine now.”
She stands, chair scraping against the floor. “If that’s all—”
I catch her wrist, holding it for a beat too long. “It’s not.” I pull out a velvet box and flip it open. “Will this do?”
She glances inside, and her eyes grow wide. The diamond glitters in the light as I pull the ring out and slide it onto her finger without further ado.
Then I release her, and jerk my chin toward the door.
“Go on,” I say, quiet now. “I’ve got company coming.”
Her expression flickers. She hides it quickly, but not fast enough. “It’s late for company.” She tries to sound casual, but I don’t miss the way her eyes search my face.
“It’s just Giorgia,” I add, watching the confusion bloom in her eyes. “We’ll be in my bedroom. Don’t disturb.”
Her eyes grow wide, and she pulls back a little more.
She thinks she knows what it means.
I let her.
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WHAT DOES IT MEAN?? Theories? ????