10 | Speaking out of Turn
FIORELLA
The sound of the voice slices through the silence like a whip. “Now, that doesn’t sound like something a loving wife would say.”
My purse nearly slips from my hands. I spin around, pulse hammering in my throat.
He’s standing in the doorway—older and shorter than Santo, but with that same impenetrable stare.
His father.
His suit is immaculate, he looks like he’s ready to step onto a red carpet.
Matteo straightens immediately. “Don Valenti—sir.” He steps up to my side. “This is Fiorella.”
“I gathered.” His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the steel in it. “You’re lucky it was me who overheard, not someone else.”
My mouth opens, but the apology jumbles up in my throat. “I’m— I didn’t realize— I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, it was—”
“Thoughtless.” His eyes pin me in place. “And dangerous. You will never speak about your fiancé like that again. Do you understand me?”
I nod quickly. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
He studies me for a long, excruciating beat.
Then his mouth curves—not in amusement, but in quiet disdain.
“You’d better step it up, ragazza. My wife is on the property, and she believes this union is a love match.”
He leans in slightly, his tone dropping to something far colder. “Don’t embarrass my family.”
He starts to turn, then pauses.
“For your sake,” he adds, “learn to watch your tongue. It’s a terrible thing to lose—especially in this house.”
He retreats back into the house without another glance.
I stay rooted until Matteo gently takes my arm. “You need to get ready.”
He strides ahead, practically dragging me through the hall and up the stairs. At my door, he pushes me inside and moves to shut it, but I catch it.
“Wait—was that… was he the real boss? Or is his name Don?”
Matteo glances over his shoulder. “His name is Salvatore Valenti. He’s retired. We call him Don out of respect. Now get ready before you get us both in trouble.” He wrenches the door out of my hand and shuts it.
I sigh and turn toward my bed. Something’s waiting on top.
I inch closer, wary—as if it might explode if I get too near.
It’s a dress.
I pick it up by the tips of my fingers and hold it up. The fabric is so dark it seems to swallow the light. The hem hits just above the knee, the neckline is high, and there’s a slit up the left thigh bordering on indecency.
Then I see what’s beside it—a pair of stockings. Black, sheer, and lace-trimmed.
They’re the kind of thing I wear to lingerie shoots weekly, but here, they somehow feel… scandalous.
I shower quickly and slip on the dress and stockings. I twist my hair up and go light on the makeup. Just as I’m dabbing on lip tint, a sharp, curt knock rattles the door.
I don’t even need to guess who it is—the shift in the air is a dead giveaway.
I pad across the room on stocking feet and crack the door open.
Santo pushes it wider and steps in without a word, ignoring my muffled protest.
His gaze drags over me, slow and languid, from throat to hemline.
“I didn’t invite you in,” I snap.
“It’s my house, no?”
“Well, it’s my house too now. You did that to yourself.” I grab the handle. “And this is definitely my room.”
Santo steps past me like I’m a puddle in his path—annoying, but not worth turning back for.
He sinks into the chair in front of my vanity, eyes glued to the slit on my thigh. “I see the dress fits.”
“Like a glove.” I roll my eyes. “What’d you do—get my measurements from my agency or something?”
“Sì.” His answer is final, unashamed.
“How convenient.” I pull a pair of strappy heels from the closet and saunter back toward him. “You’re in my chair.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, amusement ghosting through his eyes. He pushes himself up, stepping aside with a mock bow.
“Tutto tuo, tesoro.” All yours, darling.
I sit, keeping my gaze locked on his reflection in the mirror as I unclasp the strap of my heel.
His hand shoots out, taking the shoe from me.
Then he sinks to his knees in front of me, his palm warm as it curls around my calf.
The air between us tightens—sharp as static. I try to pry my leg out of his grip.
“You don’t have to—”
He slides the heel onto my foot slowly. His thumb traces the curve of my ankle as he fastens the strap, and my thighs clench involuntarily.
I tilt my chin, desperate to keep control. “Wouldn’t have thought you’re the type of man that kneels to the floor. Is this your first time?”
I mean it tauntingly, but his head lifts. That gaze—steady and unreadable—pins me where I sit.
“Yes.”
The word lands heavy—intimate.
My stomach twists. I want to scoff, to downplay the flicker of heat curling low in my belly, but all I can manage is a weak, “Guess I should feel honored.”
He doesn’t respond. He just straightens, the movement unhurried, unfazed.
And I hate that I can feel the ghost of his touch long after he’s stepped back.
“Let’s go,” he says, voice cool again, already halfway to the door.
Outside, the evening air feels colder than it should. Santo walks a step ahead of me, suit jacket draped effortlessly over one shoulder. The gravel crunches beneath our feet, my ankles fighting for their lives in the flimsy stilettos.
Santo glances back at me, then halts. He waits for me to catch up, then drapes his jacket around my shoulders, his hand at my elbow as we continue down the path.
At the edge of the courtyard, a figure waits.
Salvatore Valenti.
His expression is carved from marble—eyes even colder than Santo’s.
“Well,” he says lightly, though his tone cuts. “At least one of you knows how to play the part.”
I freeze, unsure whether to curtsy or combust.
Santo’s jaw ticks once. “Good afternoon, Padre.” His tone is respectful—but barely. “Fiorella’s learning quickly.”
“Is that so?” The Don’s eyes flick toward me. “Last I heard, she was outside your house calling her future husband a manipulating, power-abusing criminal.”
My mouth goes dry.
Santo’s smirk is lethal. “She’s a firecracker. You always said that kind of woman keeps a man sharp.”
Salvatore’s brow lifts. “A woman like her makes a man weak.”
“Not if the man knows how to handle her.”
The silence between them hums like a live wire.
Salvatore takes a step closer, his voice dropping. “Letting your wife disrespect you doesn’t just make you look weak. It makes all of us look weak.”
Santo’s tone drops so low he’s almost growling. “I can handle my woman.”
His father studies him for a long moment, then nods once—more warning than approval. “Then handle her. Before she handles you.”
He turns on his heel and walks back toward the house, his presence lingering even after he’s gone.
The second he’s out of earshot, I exhale shakily. “Thank you. For—”
Santo’s gaze snaps to mine. The shift in him is instant. The easy charm from earlier burns off, replaced by something darker, quieter.
“So you’ve been talking shit about me?”
My throat tightens. “I didn’t— It was just— I was frustrated—”
He glances at his watch, then back at me, eyes unreadable.
“Get in the car and look in love, amore mio.” He opens the door and gestures inside. “I’ll deal with you after dinner.”
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