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He’d shown no remorse over skipping out on half our introductory dinner to smoke cigars in my father’s office, and he’d left without so much as a thank you or good night.
Dante was a billionaire, but he had the manners of an ill-bred troll.
“Then why are you marrying him?” Sloane raised a perfectly groomed brow. “Tell your parents to find you a better match.”
“That’s the problem. Thereisno better match in their eyes. They think he’s perfect.”
“Dante Russo, perfect?” Her brow arched higher. “His security team once hospitalized someone who tried to break into his house. The guy wound up in a months-long coma with broken ribs and a shattered kneecap. It’s impressive, but I wouldn’t say he’s perfect.”
Only Sloane would think putting a guy in a coma was impressive.
“Trust me, I know. I’m not the one you have to convince,” I muttered.
Not that Dante’s notorious ruthlessness mattered to my family. He could shoot someone during rush hour in midtown Manhattan and they’d say the person deserved it.
“I don’t understand why you agreed toanyengagement at all.” Sloane shook her head. “You don’t need your parents’ money. You can marry who you want and there’s not a thing they can do about it.”
“It’s not about the money.” Even if my parents cut off my inheritance, I had plenty left over from my job, investments, and trust fund, which I came into when I was twenty-one. “It’s about…” I searched for the right word. “Family.”
Isabella and Sloane exchanged glances.
This wasn’t the first time we’d discussed my engagementormy relationship with my parents, but I felt compelled to defend them each time.
“Arranged marriages are expected in my family,” I said. “My sister did it, and so will I. I’ve known this was coming since I was a teenager.”
“Yeah, but what are they going to do if you say no?” Isabella asked. “Disown you?”
My stomach plummeted. I forced a tight laugh. “Maybe.”Absolutely.
They’d lauded my aunt for disowning my cousin after she turned down a scholarship to Princeton to open a food truck. Refusing to marry a Russo was a thousand times worse.
If I broke the engagement, my parents would never see or speak to me again. They weren’t perfect, but the prospect of getting cut off from my family and being all alone made the mai tais slosh dangerously in my stomach.
Isabella wouldn’t understand though. Culturally, we were similar, though she was Filipina Chinese instead of Hong Kong Chinese. But she came from a large, loving family who was okay with her moving across the country to bartend and pursue her writing dreams.
If I expressed similar desires to my parents, they’d either lock me in my room and perform an exorcism or toss me onto the streets with nothing except the clothes on my back, figuratively speaking.
“I don’t want to disappoint them,” I said. “They raised me, and they sacrificed a lot so I can have the life I have now. Marrying Dante would helpallof us.”
Familial relationships shouldn’t be transactional, but I couldn’t shake the sense I owed my parents a huge debt for everything—the opportunities, the education, the freedom to live and work where I want without worrying about money. They were luxuries most people didn’t have, and I didn’t take them for granted.
Parents took care of their children. When the children grew up, they took care of their parents. In our case, that meant said children married well and expanded the family’s wealth and influence.
It was just the way our world worked.
Isabella sighed. We’d been friends since we met at a yoga class when I was twenty-two. The yoga lessons hadn’t lasted; our friendship had. She knew better than to argue with me about my family.
“Okay, but that doesn’t change the fact you haven’t spoken to him when you’re moving in with himnext week.”
I fidgeted with my sapphire bracelet. I would’ve pushed back on giving up my West Village apartment to move into Dante’s Upper East Side penthouse, but what would be the point? I would just be wasting my breath arguing with my father.
However, other than Dante’s address, I didn’t have any details for the move. No keys, no building requirements, nothing.
“You have to talk to the man eventually,” Isabella added. “Don’t be a wuss.”
“I amnota wuss.” I turned to Sloane. “Am I?”
She glanced up from her phone. Technically, none of us were allowed to check our phones during happy hour. Whoever broke the rule had to pick up the tab for the night.
