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Her shoulders relaxed slightly, seeing that the coast was clear. Until her eyes landed on me.
They bulged for a split second, her sinful mouth falling open in surprise. There was absolutely no fucking way this was a coincidence.
It was all a fucking lie. Everything about her was a lie. From her high heels to the damn strap that I watched fall from her shoulder like a stupid adolescent that had just found out his dick could twitch at the sight of such perfection. Deceit to allure and let on gullible men who didn’t know that the devil could wear couture.
I had a visceral reaction to this woman and now I’d have to endure seeing her for the rest of my life as my sister in-law. Damn status seeker, latching onto the first opportunity to marry into a bigger cosca like a motherfucking leech.
I stood straighter, pulling out a cigarette from the inside pocket of my jacket, grazing the bud between my lips as I watched her saunter towards us.
“Liam.” I said as a means of greeting, lighting the cigarette and taking the largest puff I’d ever managed.
“Matt, this is Francesca Amato. Francesca, this is my older brother, Matteo Battaglia.” Liam introduced her, ignorant to the fact that I had already had the pleasure.
Francesca was staring at me, keeping up the act.
“Miss Amato.” I greeted, blowing out the cloud of smoke I had trapped in my lungs to the side while my eyes bore into her unrelentingly.
She dropped her arm from Liam’s while he greeted Alison and my father before facing Jamie.
I had thought about how hard tonight would be for them, but right now, all I could think about was lighting my whole damn pack of smokes to keep my rage, thirst, bloodlust, or whatever the fuck I was feeling at bay.
“Finally, a name,” I said.
“You seem disappointed.”
“Not in the slightest. Played is more accurate. I’m not used to the feeling, that’s all. Now I understand why you didn’t want to tell me who you were.” My voice held its ground even though my tongue felt like pouring all the acid onto those words.
“I had no idea you were a Battaglia.”
“Of course not.” I sarcastically chuckled, throwing the still-lit butt on the floor and crushing it with more force than needed. “Otherwise you would have accepted the drink along with the key card to my room.”
With that, I turned around and walked into the museum, not caring to see if my words had the desired effect on her or not. I was wearing my heart on my sleeve, for whatever reason, and I needed to beat it back into submission.
???
Expectedly, Liam was worried about Jamie, leaving Francesca alone by the bar to go stalk her on the dance floor.
“Top shelf Macallan. Hold the ice.” I needed it straight up tonight. “One for the lady, too.” I finished, referring to Francesca, who I’d come to stand next to.
She looked at me with such direness in those eyes, not hiding the snarl of repugnance back, either. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under right about now. She didn’t so much as mutter a single word to me, keeping me pinned under that glower that made her look sexy as fuck.
The bartender placed our drinks on the counter, and I held mine up towards her, waiting to clink my glass with hers in some kind of unworded apology or something.
Instead, Francesca picked up her glass, stirred the drink with her middle finger, and then licked the tip with as much theatricals as she could, flipping me off before shoving the tumbler back onto the counter.
“Like a damn lady,” I replied, tilting my glass towards her before downing the whole drink. I couldn’t help the amusement that filled me at her gesture. It was pure, uncalculated, and genuine.
“I never liked whiskey all that much, but somehow, tonight, I grew a fierce distaste for it. It’s arrogant, snobby, and thinks it’s the best out of all the liquors, even though it tastes like shit. It makes you feel like the king of the world for a couple of hours until you wake up with nothing left but a nagging headache and a whole lot of regrets.”
“Ouch. I’m whiskey, is that what you mean?”
“So smart, Mr. Battaglia.” She cheered in fake glee.
“You’re treading a thin line here, Francesca. You’re not back home. You better show some respect.”
“Oh, so I’m a whore if I talk to a man who single-mindedly decided to buy me a drink but get a warning if I tell him to fuck off?”
“Talk? We did a little more than just talk.”
