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I ring my hands under the table when I feel eyes on me. Glancing up, I notice my father staring daggers into my face as if he’s waiting for something.
“Sorry, Father. What was that?” I ask, already knowing I’ll face his rage later.
He clears his throat and sets his whiskey on the linen-covered table a bit harder than the previous times, rattling the ice in the glass.
“I said, why don’t you tell the Martínezes about the Presidential Excellence Award you received?”
Santiago finally speaks up, taking a break from devouring his food. “To be frank, Mr. Amato—”
“Call me Gabriel, son,” my father interrupts, and I don’t miss the look Santiago shoots in his direction.
Pure fury.
“As I was saying,Gabriel, to be frank, I prefer my future wife to have…how do I say this…other redeeming qualities. I’m not as concerned with her intelligence as I am with her abilities in other areas.”
Gabriel Jr. starts cackling like the asshole he is as he rubs his palms together. Redness flares on my father’s cheeks, and his brows draw sharply together. He quickly regains his composure and clears his throat just as Roberto mumbles something to Santiago I can’t hear. My father takes a drink of water and sets the glass back onto the table with force, causing the table to shake and the water to spill over the edge of the glass.
I may be only a pawn, but I amhispawn, and I know he didn’t take a liking to such immodesty at the dinner table.
Not to mention…fucking yuck.
The man all but just told my father he’s more worried about my ability to give a proper blowjob than about my brain.
What a catch.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to the table, needing to go to the restroom before I throw up all over the table.
I stand, nearly losing my footing and tripping over my YSL gown. I knew this damn dress was a disaster waiting to happen. The beautiful red satin gown is perfection, but it’s also a damn death trap.
I pass the gold-plated walls, the signature statues, and outrageous sconces. The dim lighting is just enough to light the way in the dark hallway. I stomp like a petulant child toward the ladies’ room, feeling eyes on me the entire time, and I curse my father and the stupid cartel. Screw them all.
Once I’m inside, I check under each stall to be sure I’m alone before letting out a sharp, high-pitched whisper-scream, muffling it with the back of my hand. I run the water under my hands, aching to splash it on my cheeks that are warm with embarrassment, but can’t risk ruining my makeup.
As if I could scrub them all off the face of the earth, I rub soap into my hands quickly, digging my nails into my skin to focus on a pain other than the one radiating in my chest.
“Screw them. Screw being a damn pawn. Screw—”
Warm arms wrap around my waist. Just as I start to let out a horrified scream, the arms are gone, and a palm makes contact with my mouth, cutting off the blood-curdling scream.
My eyes connect with his in the mirror, and I realize…it’s him.
Dante.
“Promise to be a good girl and not scream?” he whispers into my ear, his breath hot on my skin and his deep voice penetrating every inch of my body, shattering my resolve. “At least, not right now,” he says. “Let’s save that for later, yeah?”
He grins, and I don’t miss the sexual innuendo.
I nod slowly, completely unaware of how he got in here, or why.
He gently removes his hand and gives me that same smile I’ve been obsessing over. This man. He’s ungodly attractive, unfairly, too, even in street clothes. How can one man be so unbelievably delicious-looking? Jesus Christ.
“I can’t stop fucking thinking about you, Giana,” Dante says, his voice low and deep, causing a knot to form in the pit of my stomach. “About these lips…” He stays behind me as we look at each other in the mirror, and he runs the tip of his finger down my lip, exposing my teeth. “About how you taste…” He moves his face to my neck and whispers the words into my ear, causing that knot to double in size. “About how badly I want to continue showing you everything you’ve been missing out on.”
Before I can even fully wrap my brain around what’s happening, his hand clamps around my throat. He curls his long fingers, digging his fingertips into my skin. Fear blooms in my chest, and as I look into his eyes, he presses his forehead to mine.
“Did you know our minds can’t truly distinguish pain from pleasure?” he asks. I yank backward from his grasp, but he only tightens his hold. It isn’t enough to fully cut off my air supply, but it’s enough to make me wonder what he’s getting at.
Why is he here?Howis he here?
