Chapter 10
Ten
Luca
The hours crawl past in a haze of distraction. I sign documents without reading them. Attend meetings without hearing them. The wish burns in my pocket through all of it, a constant reminder of a question I've decided not to ask. Not yet.
By the time evening arrives, my nerves feel stripped raw.
The charity gala glitters like a fever dream of wealth and power, held in a historic ballroom that drips with old money and older secrets.
Crystal chandeliers scatter prismatic light across a space packed with Chicago's elite, their diamonds and designer gowns competing for attention.
Champagne flows like water from an endless fountain near the entrance, the bubbles catching light as servers circulate with silver trays.
The orchestra plays something classical and forgettable, strings and piano weaving background music for deals being made in shadowed corners.
But none of it matters.
Because Ilona stands beside me in a blue gown that matches her hair tips, and every eye in the room tracks her movement like she's the only source of light in a world gone dark.
The dress was a last-minute change. She'd tried on the emerald silk I chose, and it fit like a dream, hugging her curves in ways that made my mouth water.
But when she stepped out of the closet, her gaze had landed on another option hanging at the back.
Sapphire blue, off the shoulder, with a slit that reveals miles of toned leg when she walks.
"This one," she'd said, and the certainty in her voice made argument impossible.
She was right. The blue transforms her into something mythical and dangerous all at once. The color brings out the electric tips of her hair and makes her eyes glow in the chandelier light. Every man in the room notices. I notice them noticing.
My hand rests on the small of her back, warm through the thin silk, a constant point of contact that tells everyone in this room she belongs to me.
Her spine stays straight beneath my palm, her smile polished to perfection, but I catch the slight tension in her shoulders every time someone from her father's world approaches.
The way her fingers tighten around her clutch.
The almost imperceptible flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
They look at her differently now. Not with the dismissive tolerance they showed Enzo Marchetti's disposable daughter. No, these gazes carry fear. Respect. The wary acknowledgment that she married into power that eclipses her father's empire like the sun eclipses a candle flame.
Good. Let them tremble.
"You're staring." Her voice is low, meant only for me, threaded with amusement that makes my chest warm despite the weight of the wish in my pocket.
"Can you blame me?" I lean closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, her jasmine scent flooding my senses until I'm drowning in it. "Every man in this room wants to know what you look like beneath that dress. I'm the only one who gets to find out."
The flush that spreads across her cheeks, pink blooming beneath golden skin, is worth more than every diamond in the room.
"Arrogant." But she leans into my touch, her body softening against my side, the tension in her shoulders easing by degrees.
"Honest."
We circulate through the crowd, playing the game of politics and power that events like this demand.
Handshakes that linger too long and air kisses that land nowhere near actual skin and conversations that say nothing while meaning everything.
Through it all, my hand never leaves her back.
My attention never wavers from her safety.
Which is why I spot Enzo Marchetti the moment he enters the ballroom.
Ilona's spine goes rigid beneath my palm. Her breath catches, a tiny hitch that tells me she's seen him too. The clutch in her hand trembles almost imperceptibly.
"You knew he'd be here." Her voice is barely audible, meant for my ears alone. "That's why we came tonight."
"One of the reasons."
"You're using me as a weapon." There's no accusation in it. Just quiet recognition.
"I'm using us as a statement. There's a difference."
She's quiet for a beat, her fingers tightening around her clutch. Then her chin lifts and her shoulders roll back, the trembling gone as if she willed it out of existence.
"Then let's make sure it's a loud one."
Pride burns through my chest, hot and fierce. This woman. My jungle flower with her thorns out when it counts.
"Easy." I keep my voice calm, my posture relaxed, even as every predator instinct I possess screams to eliminate the threat. "He can't touch you here."
Enzo moves through the crowd like a shark through calm waters, his silver hair gleaming beneath the chandeliers, his smile warm and paternal and utterly, devastatingly false.
The guests part for him unconsciously, some gravitating closer, others drifting away, all of them aware on some primal level that a predator has entered their midst.
Ilona's spine doesn’t relax. "You don't know him." Her words are barely audible, meant for my ears alone. "He doesn't need to touch me to hurt me."
“My source tells me he already knows we are married. The courthouse staff did their job of spreading the news.”
Ilona’s gaze flicks to mine. “I could have used that information before right this minute.”
I hold back a cringe. “You're right. I should have told you sooner.”
“Good. Now I have one of my own to share. There's no way he doesn't know I'm pregnant. He's by now found the pregnancy tests I left behind in my apartment. Now he knows I'm carrying the enemy's baby.”
“Good to know.”
Enzo crosses the remaining distance with the easy confidence of a man who believes he controls every room he enters. His expensive suit fits him like armor. His cologne reaches us before he does, something cloying and old-fashioned that makes my stomach turn.
He stops before us and inclines his head in a gesture that might pass for respect if you didn't know to look deeper.
“Father." The word carries no warmth from Ilona. No recognition of the bond it implies. Just cold acknowledgment of biological fact, delivered with a flatness that would make lesser men flinch.
"Ilona. You look radiant." His pale eyes sweep over her in a way that makes my hand curl into a fist. "Marriage agrees with you, though I confess I'm wounded my only daughter didn't see fit to invite her father to the ceremony.
" His smile is warm, practiced, the concerned parent performing for an audience.
"I had to hear the news from a mutual friend. Imagine my surprise."
The lies drip from his tongue like honey laced with arsenic, sweet on the surface, poison underneath.
He turns those calculating eyes on me and extends his hand. "Mr. Valentina. I don't believe we've been formally introduced, though it seems you've become family while I wasn't looking."
I take it only because refusing would cause a scene that serves his purposes better than mine. His grip is firm, testing, the handshake of a man measuring an opponent. His palm is dry and cool, like touching snake scales.
"I only ask," he continues, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, paternal in a way that makes my skin crawl, "that you allow me to be part of my grandchild's life. In time, of course. When trust has been established. I’m sure you are well aware of the friction Ilona and I have at the moment. "
He makes no mention of the friction between us. He knows he's on the Syndicate's radar. And I'm not dumb enough to assume he doesn't.
Ilona's body trembles against my side. Fear or fury, I can't tell which. Perhaps both. Two things can always be true.
"We appreciate your well-wishes." I keep my tone neutral, my expression bland, the mask of diplomacy firmly in place. "I'm sure Ilona will consider your request."
Enzo's smile doesn't waver. He inclines his head again, the picture of paternal grace, and melts back into the crowd like he was never there at all.
The moment he's gone, Ilona releases a breath that shudders through her entire body.
"Champagne." She snags a glass from a passing server and clutches it like a lifeline. "That man could make offering candy to children sound like a threat."
I take the glass from her hand.
"I wasn't going to drink it." She shoots me a look that could cut glass. "I just needed something in my hands so I didn't walk back over there and slap the lies right off his face in front of three hundred people."
The fire in her eyes settles the knot in my chest more than any apology could. There she is. My jungle flower with her thorns out.
"Credit given." I set the glass on a nearby ledge and press my palm against the small of her back, pulling her closer to my side. "Don’t mistake his words for surrender. That was an opening move."
Her eyes meet mine, dark and troubled, reflecting the chandelier light like stars drowning in deep water.
"I know all too well. But I just wish it was different. I wish for once he meant what he said. Do you know what it would mean to have my father in our lives? A real grandfather for our baby, I mean.”
She pauses as if to visualize a life where that is true and then sighs heavily. “What do you think all this means for us?"
"It means we stay alert." I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs tracing her cheekbones, feeling the warmth of her skin against my palms. "It means I protect you. Always."
She searches my expression for a long moment, looking for answers I'm not ready to give. Then she nods, accepting my deflection, trusting me with a faith I intend to earn.
"Take me home. We’ve come to do what we needed and now I just want to be done with all this."
Her words land closer to the wish burning in my pocket than she knows.