She applies the red lipstick to her upper lip and then pauses, ignoring my offer. “Part of the family, yes. Not an Andriani, though.” She finishes on the lower, the implied distinction like an underlying warning of sorts.
I keep my hand extended. “We’ll basically be cousins, then. What’s your name?”
She drops the lipstick into her clutch and reluctantly accepts my hand, doing this weird, loose clasp of the tips of my fingers like I’m dog poo she just wiped off her shoe and she’s trying to get me to the trash while touching as little of me as possible. “Chiara Rossellini.”
The look she gives me tells me that she expects me to recognize her name.
I don’t.
I withdraw my hand, getting the distinct impression that this woman doesn’t like me very much. “Thank you for coming to the rehearsal dinner. Will I see you at the wedding tomorrow?”
Something flashes in her eyes. “No. I have a prior commitment.”
“That’s too bad.” I’m lying to be polite. There’s something distinctly unpleasant about the vibe Chiara is giving off. Something territorial. “I guess I’ll see you around, then?”
Her mouth tightens, drawing my attention to the bright shade of red she’s chosen. Not that it doesn’t suit her. But then, with Chiara’s looks, she could probably roll around in mud and still manage to look like she stepped onto aSports Illustratedswimsuit shoot.
“I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other,” she tells me in a snarky, patronizing tone. “Lorenzo comes to my place directly when he needs something.”
For a few seconds, I have no idea who she’s talking about. There must be a Lorenzo Andriani I met tonight. In my defense, there were a lot of them, and not all Andrianis, but some Revellos and other surnames too, most of which I’ve already forgotten.
And then it hits me.
Scorpion is Lorenzo.
Lorenzo is Scorpion.
The man I’m marrying tomorrow. And the beautiful woman standing in front of me with her newly applied hot-red lipstick is hinting that she’s his fuck buddy. Or maybe even something more serious than that.
For reasons I refuse to consider, a sharp stab of something goes through me. The urge to tell Chiara to back off is strong. If Misha is forcing me to sleep with Scorpion and possibly have his baby, the last thing I want is to be sharing my husband’s dick with another woman.
“Well, then,” I manage. “You probably won’t be seeing my husband either. I don’t plan on him needing anything from anyone else.”
I didn’t mean to play themy husbandcard, but I don’t regret it when I watch the smugness leaching from her face.
Anger flashes in her eyes. “You’re nothing to him, you know that? This little wedding of yours is a business alliance. Do you think he’d ever choose someone like you over me if he had the choice? You’re not his type, sweetie.”
She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but for some reason, I’m filled with fury of my own.
“It’s odd that he’s never mentioned you if you’re so important to him,” I point out.
The smile on her bright-red lips is superior. “He doesn’t need to mention me to you. I know what we have.”
“Had.” I get close to her. “And don’t sweetie me. I may be an elegant ballerina onstage, but I have Bratva blood running in my veins and a knife in my purse.”
I’m not lying about that. I do have a knife in my purse. It’s an old habit. Would I use it to carve her up? Hard pass. Blood and violence aren’t for me. But Chiara the smirking sidepiece doesn’t need to know that.
Her chin goes up. “I wouldn’t threaten me if I were you. Lorenzo won’t like it.”
I’ve been kidnapped and forced into marriage. I’ve lost the career I’ve been working for all my life. I don’t even know who I am anymore, and now I’m standing here in an Andriani restaurant the day before my wedding getting talked down to by my husband-to-be’s fuck buddy.
And suddenly, my patience snaps. I’ve been pushed past my limits.
I’ve.
Had.
Enough.
