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And as it does, I’m not thinking about the six other men I’m going to meet tonight. All I’m thinking about is Alessio.
I cover my mouth with my other hand, moaning into my palm as my hips buck upwards into my fingers, and I see all of it—my wet, clenching flesh on display in the mirror. It looks so lewd, so blatantly sexual that I feel my cheeks burn red with mortification—and at the same time, it’s the best orgasm I’ve had yet.
I think I like the idea of being watched. And more than that, I like the idea that I’mlearningwhat I might want. That maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to advocate for it in bed, for myself.
If my husband even cares to know.
That thought weighs heavily on me as I clean up in the bathroom, rearranging my underwear and slipping into the navy blue silk dress. It’s entirely possible that my husbandwon’tcare about my desires. That he won’t want to know what turns me on or indulge my fantasies. That he’ll only be interested in his own pleasure and what he can take from me.
That’s what the other girls I knew whispered about—what their mothers told them. None of the details, nothing about their own bodies or even their potential husbands’, but that sex was for that future husband’s pleasure, that they should simply lie back and allow them to do as they pleased—even ifwhatwould be asked, exactly, was never explained.
Now I have a better idea, from Alessio. And I want very much to find out what the other side of it all might be—what it might feel like to be with a man who wants to make me feel every bit as good as I could possibly make him feel.
My emotions are in a tangled, messy turmoil by the time I finish getting ready, made even more so by the fact that I finally opened my mother’s jewelry box for this. It was given to me shortly after the funeral, part of my father’s will, but I hadn’t touched it. My father had always intended to give it to me on my twenty-first birthday—aside from the few pieces that I now know he had intended to dole out beforehand, like the amethyst earrings he gave me on the night of my eighteenth birthday.
I want to wear those, feeling as if the sentiment behind them might be strong enough to help get me through this, but I opt for jewelry that will match my dress instead. My mother’s jewelry box is large, full of a variety of earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and rings, a fortune’s worth of jewels in one place. It takes me longer than it probably should to look through them all, wanting to savor each one, wishing I knew what they all meant. I wish I knew which ones my father gave her and which she inherited herself, which ones she chose, and which ones might have been given to her by other family members as gifts. I never knew her well enough to have the chance, never spoke to her, or heard her voice when I was old enough to remember it.
It hits me all over again how much I’ve lost, and I want to crawl into bed and curl into myself instead of going downstairs, meeting men I don’t know, opening myself up to the possibility of a life spent with a near-stranger. I want comfort and familiarity, not the fear of the unknown.
But in this, I’m not being given a choice. And if I refuse, what little semblance of choice I do have will be taken away.
It’s enough to finally propel me into choosing what I do want to wear—a pair of earrings with teardrop sapphires cascading down from pear-shaped diamond studs, and a gorgeous cocktail ring comprised of a radiant cut sapphire that reaches nearly to my knuckle, with diamond baguettes studding the band on either side. After a moment’s hesitation, I take a thin choker necklace studded with diamonds out of the box, a teardrop sapphire hanging from it, and clasp it around my neck. The sapphire rests directly in the hollow of my throat, and the necklace sits on my throat like a collar, a thought that makes my heart skip a beat in my chest.
Is that—something, too? I imagine Alessio slipping his finger underneath the chain, pulling me in gently for a kiss, with just enough force to let me know what he wants, but not enough to break it. My pulse speeds up, fluttering in my throat, and I swallow hard.
I have a very overactive imagination, it seems, for someone who doesn’t really know how all this works.
Is that how it always is, at the beginning?I feel as if I’m waking up, discovering things I hadn’t known to imagine or want before, as if there’s this whole new world of possibility in front of me to discover. And the most frustrating thing about it is that whether or not Igetto explore it entirely depends on who I marry, and ifhewants me to—or if he’s only interested in using me to get off before discarding me.
I want to think Alessio wouldn’t give me to a man like that. But maybe neither of us would know until it’s too late—especially since I’m not supposed to discuss things like that. I can’t imagine Alessio will.
I stand up, fluffing my dark, carefully curled hair over my shoulders, sliding two diamond pins into one side to hold some of my hair back. There’s nothing else to do but go downstairs—I can already hear the sounds of the door opening and closing and the low murmur of conversation below me. My chest tightens with nerves, butterflies taking off in my stomach in a sick whirl.
There’s no point in putting it off any longer. I steel myself, tipping my chin up in defiance of my own fear, and go downstairs.
I can feel eyes on me as I come down the staircase. Alessio is standing near the dining room, talking to two young men who look only a little older than me, all of them with drinks in their hands. They turn to look at me as I walk down, and I feel my spine stiffen, my mouth going dry as I step onto the wooden floor and walk towards Alessio.
“Gianna.” He smiles at me. “This is Antonio and Tommas Lombardi. Gentlemen, meet Gianna Mancini.”
Brothers. Of course.I see it now: the similarity in their faces and their short, slightly curly dark hair, identical liquid brown eyes focused on me. They each take my hand, telling me how glad they are to meet me, but it’s hard to listen. All I can see is Alessio, his jaw set as he watches, and I canswearI see a glimmer of jealousy on his face.
But I could also be imagining it.
I’m introduced to others as they come in. Alessio brings me a glass of wine, warning me to sip it slowly, and when he bends down to whisper that in my ear, a shiver goes down my spine that I can’t quite hide. I try to remember the names as I’m introduced—Marco, Matteo, Carlo, Giorgio—and then the door opens, and another young man walks in, sending me into a nervous spiral of confusion.
Six. Alessio said six. Did Fontana add someone to the list?
I don’t recognize the man who walks in. He’s wearing an expertly tailored charcoal suit, his dark blond hair styled back away from his face, showing off dark blue eyes that look around the room with what I feel is probably an unearned arrogance. There’s that same arrogance in his step, a swagger that makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable as he walks into the room, and I feel Alessio stiffen beside me.
“He wasn’t invited,” he growls in a low voice that sends another shiver all the way down my spine. Then he’s striding forward to intercept the newcomer before he can make it any further.
There’s a tense conversation that I can’t hear and can’t read lips well enough to understand anything that’s said. My pulse is fluttering in my throat, and I know I’m ignoring all of my other guests, but they’re all focused on what’s happening, too, watching as Alessio and the young man who just walked in argue in low tones. Alessio’s expression darkens further and further, but I see the moment he relents. The way the man brushes past him carelessly, as if Alessio doesn’t matter, makes me instantly hate him.
He strides directly up to me, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. It smells like a clean spring day, but I like the warmth and the spice of Alessio’s more. He takes my hand, smiling at me, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Andre Leone. A pleasure, Miss Mancini.”
Andre.A cold block of ice settles in my gut, twisting in me as I stare at him.This is who Fontana wanted me to marry. Who Alessio stopped me from marrying.A marriage to him would absorb my family into his, make the Mancini legacy disappear into whatever the Leone family wants it to be. The Leone family won’t be second to what my father created—they’ll take it for themselves instead.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Leone,” I manage, using every bit of politeness that my father taught me to force myself to speak in an even voice, keeping a forced smile on my face and resisting the urge to snatch my hand out of Andre’s. “You should mingle. I can’t stay away from my other guests forever, but I’m sure we’ll speak again.”
