11 | Playing the Part
SANTO
Meetings like these take energy. Patience. They’re about smiling politely while everyone in the room pretends not to notice whose hand is really around whose throat. Allies turn to enemies at the drop of a hat.
My hat. Because it’s my hand around Franco’s throat.
The Morescos sit across from us, slick and smiling. Franco’s got the kind of grin that says ‘I know something you don’t’. His wife, Donatella, is just as sharp—her gaze a razor as she sizes us up.
Fiorella sits beside me, back straight, face soft. She looks like she was made for this table—candlelight catching the curve of her jaw, that slit in her dress teasing up her thigh like it’s there just to taunt me, the lace trim of her stocking peeking out beneath.
I guess I did that to myself, picking this dress.
Franco lifts his glass. “To new distribution channels,” he says, his tone too sugary for my liking.
“Expansion,” I reply easily, letting the word hang a second. “Clean and efficient. Growth in the best sense.”
His wife hums. “Efficiency’s lovely. Though I do wonder how you keep everything so… spotless, with so many moving parts.”
I smile darkly. “I have good people handling the washing.”
My gaze slides to Ella. She catches it, blinking like she’s unsure if I’m including her in the conversation. I am. She just doesn’t need to know what kind of stains I’m talking about.
Franco chuckles. “That’s what we like to hear. We’ve had our share of spills lately.”
“Messy business,” I murmur. “But you already know, Franco—if it has the Valenti name on it, it’s taken care of. Things don’t stay messy for long around me.”
Donatella’s lips curve. “And your lovely fiancée? She helps keep things in order too, I imagine?”
Fiorella doesn’t flinch. She smiles like she’s practiced it her whole life. “I do my best,” she says sweetly, reaching across to brush her fingers through my hair, taming an imaginary strand. “It’s mostly about taking care of my man. He works too hard sometimes.”
That touch—light, but confident—short-circuits every rational thought I’ve got. My jaw ticks.
The Morescos laugh, charmed, unaware of the fire she’s just lit in me.
I need to touch her.
Slowly, I slide my hand beneath the table and onto her thigh. The nylon of her stocking burns against my thumb. I move my hand higher, until my ring finger finds the lace trim and my pinky rests against the smooth skin above it. She tenses; a soft breath catches in her throat.
That’s it.
The room, the deals, the coded talk—it all fades.
Franco’s still talking, something about “keeping the flow steady,” and I nod along, focus split between business and the soft warmth under my hand.
Ella laces her fingers through mine, delicate but firm, pinning me in place, but also anchoring us both. To anyone watching, we’re a couple in love. To me, she’s a spark in a room full of gasoline fumes.
“Everything will move as planned,” I tell Franco, my voice smooth and practised. “We’ll see the results by the end of the quarter.”
Under the table, Ella’s pulse beats against my palm.
Donatella smiles faintly. “And if anything else comes up, you’ll handle it?”
I don’t smile back. “I always handle it—” I cut Fiorella a look. “—don’t I, amore?”
She flushes instantly, red creeping up her neck and cheeks. “Yes.” Her answer is soft, almost whispered, and it does something to me.
A lock of hair slips loose from her twist, and I brush it back behind her ear, leaning in close enough to graze her cheek with my lips. “You’re being such a good girl, fiore.”
She stills—breath hitching, lips parted.
Donatella watches us, gaze sharp as a knife. “So when’s the wedding, lovebirds?”
I straighten, meeting her gaze with unyielding calm. “This Saturday.”
Beside me, Fiorella chokes on her pasta. She collects herself quickly, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. She plasters on a joyless smile. “Our big day.”
Donatella’s eyes flick between us. “Have you picked up your wedding dress yet? With a figure like yours, I bet you’ll look spectacular.”
“She will,” I cut in before Fiorella can speak. “Her dress is waiting for her at home, isn’t it, amore?”
Her throat works as she swallows, then nods. “Can’t wait to wear it this Saturday.” She hisses the last words accusingly, then picks up her fork. “Fabulous pasta, by the way, Donatella.”
----
The drive back is quiet. Fiorella stares out the rain-freckled window like she’s auditioning for the music video for a tragic love song.
I clear my throat. “So, this Saturday—”
“Our wedding day, you mean?” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, just glares at her reflection in the glass.
“Yes.” I pause. “Do you want to invite your family, or should I hire actors?”
Her head snaps around. “Actors? To play my family?”
I nod, unbothered. “Wouldn’t look very believable if no one showed up to your wedding, would it?”
She shakes her head slowly, disbelief edging her voice. “You actually expect me to put on a whole show for your mom?”
“Yes, Fiorella.” I rub a hand over my temple. “Did you read the contract?”
She leans back against the door, putting more distance between us. “I assumed your family was in on it.”
“My father knows, as you’ve gathered.” I smooth an invisible crease from my jacket. “But my mother… believes in love.”
Fiorella lets out a humorless laugh. “And this wedding—it’s in a church, I take it?”
I nod once.
“I haven’t been to mass in years.”
“Me neither.”
That gets me a raised brow.
“It’s for my mother,” I explain before she can press. “She’s… traditional.”
Fiorella sighs, voice quieter now. “She won’t like me lying in the house of God.”
“You won’t be lying.”
She scoffs softly. “You must be real dense if you think I love you, Santo.”
Something sharp ignites in my chest. It burns low, controlled. The car rolls to a stop before I can answer. I get out before Matteo kills the engine, circling around to her side.
I open her door. She steps out, chin high, trying to brush past me like I’m nothing but air.
I catch her arm. “Not so fast, bella. You and I have some talking to do.”
I guide her inside. Her heels click against the marble floor—sharp, fiery little beats that go quiet when we make it to the plush runner on the stairs. She tries to twist out of my hold when we pass her room, but I tighten my grip—firm, not cruel. Just enough to remind her who’s in charge.
We stop at my door.
She freezes. “I’m not going in there.” Her voice thins into something small.
“You are.” I push the door open, motion her inside. The lock clicks behind us, sealing her fate.
“You think I’m a manipulating, power-abusing criminal.”
I let the words settle into her, the corner of my mouth curving up. I can taste her anxiety in the air between us.
She squares her shoulders, fire burning in her eyes. “Yes.”
“Così, brava. Lying won’t help you here.” I jerk my chin toward her. “Turn around.”
Her chin lifts a fraction, like she’s ready to spit a retort—but she stays quiet. Then she obeys.
The zipper at the back of her dress gleams faintly in the low light. I drag a hand up the line of her spine, stopping just before the fastening. Her shoulders shiver beneath the fabric—she’s so damn delicate.
“Do you remember our little deal, cara mia?” My voice drops low. “You’re mine.”
Her breath catches, sharp and thin. “Only on paper. This marriage will remain unconsummated—you signed for it.”
I lean in until my breath ghosts her neck. “But we’re not married yet, are we?”
Her breath hitches, and my restraint strains. “Relax, bella. I’m not taking anything you’re not offering. Just helping my fiancée with her dress.”
The zipper hums softly as it slides down. The sound is almost indecent in the silence. She flinches—just a little—but doesn’t step away.
I could so easily take more—strip away more layers. I have all of her at my fingertips.
Instead, I stop. My knuckles rest at the small of her back—smooth, golden skin just a breath away.
“And what a sweet, convincing fiancée you were tonight,” I murmur. “You think you can show me more of her, amore?”
She trembles—not just from fear, but from awareness of the pull between us. The one that makes people do foolish things.
She nods shakily. “I can play the part in public.”
I release the zipper and step back. “That’s all I ask.”
Fiorella turns slowly, clutching her dress to her chest. “Can I go now?”
I jerk my chin at the door. “By all means.”
She hurries past me.
I call out just as her hand curls around the doorknob. “Good night, Fiorella.”
She stiffens, but doesn’t look back. The door closes softly between us.
I can’t help but grin.
Control isn’t always taken. Sometimes, it’s offered in silence.
And I can feel hers slipping, heartbeat by heartbeat.
----
How about yours? Is it slipping too? ????