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The revulsion on her face should annoy me, though it doesn’t. How can it when I’ve taught her a lesson? Be ready when I say to be ready.
“Hurry up,” I say. “You have two minutes.”
She rushes off to the bathroom, presumably to fix her hair and apply some quick make up. The second the two minutes are up, I’m dragging her out of the penthouse. She shrieks and struggles against me, succeeding at nothing but tiring herself out. Once we reach the elevator, she resigns herself to last-minute preening in the reflection of the elevator’s glass panels. Luckily for her she’s beautiful enough to get away with attending a formal dinner barely put-together.
It doesn’t matter to me either way. She’s my dinner date regardless.
We’re the last to arrive at the large table seating everyone from entertainment moguls like Everett Johansson and Johnny Goodman to city officials like Mayor Pilozzi and Captain Rodrigo. These type of public engagements are typically my least favorite, but after giving myself an extra boost, I’m in performance mode.
I’m practically my brother.
“Giancarlo, my condolences,” Captain Rodrigo says, leaning over. “What happened to Giovanni is terrible.”
Murmurs ripple across the table. Everybody gives me their most sympathetic frowns and sad eyes. I merely nod in forced gratitude before changing the subject. I’d prefer if they reserved their pity for someone else.
They don’t need to feel bad for me about my brother’s passing. It’s simply a fact of life he’s gone. He’s been buried and mourned. I’m what they’re stuck with.
No one dares say it, but it’s disappointing for them. The star of the show’s not here so they’re stuck with me—the sullen, creep brother who does his best imitation, though the results are never good enough for them.
My effort’s not good enough for Papa. For anyone.
“Falynn,” Captain Rodrigo says, “how are you holding up, dear?”
Even how he speaks to her is soft and kind-natured, like she’s worthier than me. She’s as close to the grieving widow as it gets. Everyone around the table seems to agree judging by how they eye her.
How many nights did she and my brother sit here with these people for fancy dinners?
These occasions are ours now.
I drop my arm beneath the table and sneak a hand into Falynn’s lap. She stills the moment she feels it. Right in the middle of her answering Captain Rodrigo. He raises a confused brow as he waits for her to go on, but she can’t. She’s too shocked by my wandering hand.
It has a mind of its own. My hand creeps up the supple bare flesh of her thigh and sneaks toward the hem of her dress. She gasps when I slip under, shoving my hand away and stumbling out of her chair.
The abrupt move makes the table jump. Her wine glass spills over and several others clamber to keep theirs from doing the same. Falynn looks up in jaw-dropped horror as the glass shatters at her feet. She’shumiliated.
“Excuse me,” she says, tugging on her dress. She beelines for the nearest exit.
Everyone remaining at the table breaks out in curious speculation on what happened. I grit my teeth at countless more condolences being offered. Poor Falynn’s just heartbroken and easily startled.
Poor, poor Giovanni.
I shove my chair back and abandon the clucking idiots on the spot. The dinner’s more than welcome to continue on without me. I’m riding the high of humiliation—Falynn’s humiliation and horror. Her defiance earlier this evening makes it that much more enjoyable.
She could’ve obeyed and been beautiful and lively on my arm. We could’ve played the part of a power couple. I could’ve been Giovanni if she’d let me.
Now look at her. As she flees La Pergola and scampers off like a frightened little creature, I’m trailing behind. She’s in my sights. She’s within a few strides. She’s my prey tonight, and I’m in no merciful mood.
