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Move on to Stanley Hague, who conducted a ten-minute conversation with my beloved, directing his utmost attention to her breasts, trying to somehow create eye contact with them.
Or maybe Don Rispo, a mega billionaire with a solar energy company whom I knew for a fact had been asking around if there was trouble in my paradise, just so he could drag my wife into his own personal hell.
Who was I kidding?
There wasn’t one bastard in this entire ballroom who didn’t want a piece of Francesca Rossi-Keaton.
And who could blame them?
Nemesis looked delectable in a golden organza gown, with a deep split that revealed most of her slender thigh. Her dark hair cascaded all the way down to her ass like a never-ending waterfall.
Even the strapped diamond-studded heels she wore clinked with a seductive femme fatale sound.
There were a lot of beautiful women in the ballroom, but only one could start a third world war at the snap of her long, delicate fingers.
And that woman was, for all intents and purposes, mine.
Don Rispo stirred like a cloud of nerve gas by the seven-tier champagne tower on the main table. He was as terrible as he was rich. And he was stinking filthy rich.
Politicians’ worst-kept secret was that we flirted with the wealthy while making empty promises to the poor. I was no different; I just hid it better than most.
Rispo cast another glance at my wife, dipping his head to whisper something in his assistant’s ear.
Francesca brought her wine glass to her lips—not to drink but to discreetly scold me.
“You’re being ridiculous.” She rustled behind the blood-hued liquid. “So what if he’s looking? He’s just enjoying the view.”
“He’s about to enjoy the view of my foot in his face if he doesn’t stop ogling you,” I muttered.
It didn’t help that Rispo had a warm relationship with the Italian mafia in Miami and had been known to bend the rules to get his way. He’d already had one mail-order bride that conveniently disappeared on him two years ago.
My guess was that he knew exactly where she was, and it was in one of the rivers bracketing his house.
There was no way I trusted that man to play nice with my wife.
“If you don’t stop looking at your peers like you’re about to assassinate them, you’ll never get the fat donations you’re after,” Francesca pointed out.
Right. The donations.
The worst part about tonight—other than the fact that I spent it anywhere other than in bed with Nem—was that I’d actually invited this carefully curated list of oxygen-wasters to talk my way into their deep pockets.
I was about to announce I was running for presidency and needed a healthy budget and favors to cash with my powerful peers.
“Running the Western world is overrated.” I slipped my hand to the small of her back, tightening my hold as I led her to our table. “Keeping my wife safe, however, is top priority.”
Chandeliers twinkled above our heads, marble shone beneath our feet, and waiters in impeccable attire weaved in and out of the crowd. Chicago was in the palm of my hand, but the only thing my fingers itched for was the woman I’d married.
“I am safe.” Nem swung her gaze in my direction. “I’m a big girl, and I can take care of myself.”
“No one is doubting your ability to take care of yourself, sweetheart. I’m doubting my ability not to murder anyone who looks at you the wrong way. So why don’t you wait for me here with Ms. Sterling while I go look for the poor excuse for an event planner?”
The hell with viral influencers.
A political YouTube sensation was supposed to break the news that I was running for primaries in my party and plan the entire thing.
But I couldn’t spot her among the guests, even though the announcement was due to happen in less than ten minutes.
Nem dashed to Ms. Sterling, who was chatting up a storm with my driver Smithy. I headed to the main reception area to find Ms. Moretz, also known as the least competent event planner to contaminate planet Earth.
