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Francesca had officially proven to have too much personality than necessary. It was time to clip her black-inked Nemesis wings.
“Naturally.” I threw my napkin on the table, signaling the four servants standing against each of the walls of my dining room to clear out our plates ahead of dessert.
Francesca avoided my gaze, somehow sensing how irritated I was. She could read me fairly well by now. Another thing to add to the never-ending list of things I disliked about her.
When her foot found mine under the table and the sharp pointy heel kicked my loafers in warning, I realized that I wanted a refund on my deal with Arthur Rossi.
His daughter wasn’t a toy or a weapon.
She was a liability.
“We grew self-sustaining vegetable gardens in poor parts of the country, mainly those areas that employed refugees and immigrants who lived in severe circumstances,” Nem provided, sitting back and running her long, thin fingers over her neck, avoiding my gaze.
Her heel traveled up to my knee, and then toward my inner thigh. I dragged my chair back before she had the chance to smash my balls with her stilettos.
Two can play this game.
“Is everything okay?” Galia asked Francesca with a concerned smile as my fiancée’s hand flew to her lips.
At the same time, I raised my leg under the table, pressing my heel between her thighs.
It was a knee-jerk reaction on her part, as if she forgot something on those lips, and I had a knee-jerk reaction of my own when my cock stood at attention at the gesture as if saying, Yes, Nemesis, I’m the thing that’s missing from your mouth.
That kiss on the museum’s stairs felt like a first kiss. But after she’d bragged about sleeping with Angelo plenty of times, and probably rode half The Outfit, I concluded that my future wife was simply a very convincing kisser.
If I could see the same disgust on her face again after putting my lips on hers, I’d remember the cold bitch who reminded me so much of her asshole father.
“I could use a cigarette.” Francesca smiled apologetically, pushing her chair back and relieving her groin from my hard-pressed foot, which no doubt put pressure on her clit.
“Such a pretty girl, such a filthy habit.” Galia scrunched her nose, not missing a chance to patronize her younger, prettier companion.
I happen to like my fiancée filthy, I wanted to bite out, but of course, I kept the unwarranted reaction to myself.
Smoking was a vice, and vices were weaknesses. I didn’t allow for any of them in my life.
I drank very casually with strict control over the amount, quality, and frequency of my drinks. Other than that, I did not consume junk food, did not bet, smoke, do drugs, or even play Best Fiends and Candy Crush.
Zero addictions.
Other than Arthur Rossi’s misery, of course.
I couldn’t get enough of that shit.
“May I be excused?” Francesca cleared her throat.
I waved her off impatiently. “Make it fast.”
After dessert, which Bryan and I didn’t touch yet Galia consumed it in its entirety and even asked for a second serving, I noticed that Francesca took two bites of her own before declaring it was sinfully good, but she was too full (that boarding school was worth every penny).
Afterward, we retired with our drinks to the salon to listen to my bride-to-be play the piano. Since Nem was nineteen, practically a baby in the world I operated in, it was of essence to show that she was well-bred, soft-spoken, and destined to become American royalty.
The three of us sat on the upholstered sofas overlooking the piano as Francesca took a seat. The entire round room had shelves stacked with books for walls.
It was my final touch when entertaining colleagues and peers, but having a wife who could play the instrument was even more impressive.
Francesca arranged her dress on her seat with admirable precision, her back straight as an arrow, her neck long and delicate, begging to be bruised.
Her fingers floated over the keys—flirting, barely touching them. She took her time admiring the piece I’d inherited from my parents.
