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“Any particular reason why you insist on getting on my bad side?”
“You’re on my future father-in-law’s bad side,” he said, unflinching. I had to hand it to him—he had balls the size of cantaloupes. “And the race to Francesca’s heart is one I’m going to beat you at.”
“I very much doubt you’re capable of beating me to anything other than pre-ejaculation, kid.”
“I’m fully prepared to test that theory. Heads up—I told Francesca I would gladly marry her without dowry, and that I am more than happy for my family to shell out whatever money is needed to untangle her from her Keaton situation. Might want to find another bride to fit that dress you bought.”
I was about to punch him in the middle of my engagement party when my fiancée slipped out of the second floor, too.
She looked like a barely contained mess. Her smeared makeup was carefully wiped from her face, her eyes were wild with realization.
Paired with Bandini’s frank admission that he’d slept with her, I saw very clearly what everyone else at the party were about to see, too.
Yet again, Francesca Rossi had been fucked by a man who was not her fiancé.
At her own engagement party.
Minutes after she was on my arm, no less.
I pushed Angelo down the stairs, pulling my future wife by the arm. She shrieked when I touched her, her eyes darting up in hysteria before softening when she saw it was me.
Then she saw what was written on my face. If she could read me—which she could by now—she knew she was in deep trouble.
“What do you want?” she seethed.
A loyal fiancée.
A fucking shotgun.
For this nightmare of a sham relationship to be over.
“You just broke our verbal contract, Nemesis. Not a good thing to do with a lawyer.”
She frowned but didn’t try to defend herself.
There was a guillotine inside me, and I wanted to snap her pretty head off her body.
Tonight.
Chapter
Eleven
FRANCESCA
I’d just wiped the tears from my eyes after telling my mother that I was starting to warm up to my husband.
The revelation was bittersweet, if not completely crushing.
Perhaps it was the nightly encounters in the vegetable garden, or the way he kissed me so openly in front of Ms. Sterling tonight when he picked me up.
“Is it Stockholm syndrome, Mama?”
“I think it’s just young love, Vita Mia. Love is, after all, a little mad. Otherwise, it is not love but merely infatuation.”
“Do you have to be mad to fall in love?”
“Of course, you do. Falling in love is, by definition, going crazy for someone else.”
