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“And what kind is that?” He pulls me a little closer, and my heart skips a beat.
“An arrogant one.” I curl my fingers around his arm, enjoying the closeness. For all that I know, tonight needs to be a one-off, that this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence, that we mightnevergo on another date and probably never should—I can’t help enjoying myself.
Ilikebeing with Dante. No matter where we are.
The interior of the museum is decorated beautifully, so much so that it takes my breath away as we walk up the steps and inside. Dante keeps my hand tucked through his arm, being every bit the gentleman, and I tell myself to relax and have fun. I’m here with him, and he’s assured me over and over that he doesn’t expect me to be anything other than myself.
I just hope that really is enough.
“This is lovely.” I look around as we walk inside, my heels clicking on the stone floor. The two sides of the room are separated by a long runner, and on each side is an array of tables, some seated and some tall enough for guests to gather around while standing. Floral arrangements fill the space, along the walls and on every table, perfuming the room, and the ceiling is strung with a canopy of fairy lights. From one corner, a string quartet is playing a song I don’t recognize, and black-garbed staff move elegantly around the room with trays of appetizers and champagne.
Dante sweeps two glasses of champagne off of one of those trays as it passes by, keeping one for himself and handing me the other. He taps the rim of his glass against mine, that smile that I’ve grown to enjoy so much wreathing his face. “To a perfect evening,” he murmurs, and I can’t help smiling in return.
“A perfect evening,” I echo. I take a hesitant sip—I’ve never liked champagne—but one taste is enough to tell me that it’s because I’ve never hadgoodchampagne. It bursts across my tongue in an explosion of sweet, fizzing bubbles, and I give Dante a surprised look.
“That’s delicious.” I take another sip, and he chuckles.
“When it comes to champagne, the price point really does make all the difference.”
“Before this, I would have told you that was a snobby thing to say. But you’re right.” I take another sip, looking around the room.
Dante laughs again, low and silky, and I feel his hand brush against my lower back. It’s a possessive gesture, but I find that here, I don’t mind it as much. Every time I look around, it feels as if I find something else to make me feel as if I don’t belong—gorgeous women with their hair and makeup done more impeccably than mine, glances thrown my way that I can’t help but interpret as surprise that someone like me is here at all, let alone on the arm of a man like Dante.
I’ve never let anything make me feel inferior in my entire life. I don’t want to let it happen now, but it’s almost impossiblenotto be insecure.
As if he can sense my unease rising again, Dante’s hand moves in small circles on my lower back. “They’re all looking at you because you’re the most beautiful woman here,” he murmurs. “And for no other reason than that.”
I tilt my chin up to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have to lie,” I say quietly, glancing around again. I can pick out who are the dancers that belong to the ballet—they all move with a grace and fluidity that makes it obvious. Some of them have dates, others are mingling alone, moving from guest to guest as they make conversation.
“I’d never lie to you.” Dante intercepts another passing waiter, liberating a few appetizers from the tray and setting them on the high-topped table in front of us. “Here. Eat something. That champagne can go to your head.”
“Are you suggesting youdon’twant to get me tipsy?” I tease him, hoping to shake off my nerves. I reach for a prosciutto-wrapped shrimp, raising an eyebrow as I take a small bite. It’s as delicious as the champagne—probably better than anything I’ve ever eaten.
Dante’s look darkens, taking on a heated desire that sends a shiver down my spine. “I want you sober for everything I plan to do to you tonight,” he murmurs, his hand stroking my back. His fingertips trace down my spine, and the touch combined with his words nearly takes my breath away.
He starts to pull me closer, as if he can’t resist me even with so many people around, but suddenly he stiffens. I follow the direction of his gaze, and see a tall, dark-haired man with a smooth-shaven jaw and dark hazel eyes talking to one of the ballerinas. She’s petite and delicate-looking, her honey-blonde hair drawn back into a neat bun and an icy blue silk dress clinging to her slight frame, and for a brief moment, I feel a flare of jealousy as I think that Dante is looking at her. But a second passes, and I realize he’s looking at the man, his jaw tight as if he’s displeased to see him.
As if he can feel Dante’s eyes on him, the man turns. His lips quirk upwards in what looks like a smirk, and then his gaze drifts to me.
Instantly, the moment his eyes land on me, I feel a crawling sensation up my spine. The look the man gives me is blatantly lascivious, sweeping from my cleavage in the red dress down to my feet and back up again. It’s unmistakable as anything other than a man deciding how much he wants to fuck me.
It makes me want to stalk across the room and slap the look off of his face.
He bends down, murmuring something to the ballerina, who nods. Her face is carefully expressionless, and I can’t help but wonder what his relationship to her is. She doesn’t look as if she’s particularly enjoying herself.
I can feel Dante tense next to me as the man walks towards us. His hand presses a little more firmly against my back, sliding around to the side of my waist as the man approaches, and I realize they must know each other. At the very least, Dante knowsofhim, and doesn’t like him.
“Campano.” The man’s voice is less accented than Dante’s, more American. There’s the slightest hint of that Italian lilt, but whereas Dante clearly grew up with a father from the old country, this man speaks as if he’s two generations removed. He’s younger than Dante, too—mid-twenties, perhaps, instead of early thirties. His attitude, though, suggests that it means nothing to him.
“Altiere,” Dante replies tonelessly, his voice flat and smooth. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Patronizing the ballet is the thing to do, isn’t it? Your family does, the Russians sure as hell do. Next, the cartel and the Yakuza will be in on it. I heard Kaito Nakamura visited once and took one of the girls back with him, but his money isn’t flowing yet.”
“You heard all that?” Dante smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You have been busy.”
“It’s good to know who my friends might be. And my enemies.” His hazel eyes are colder than should be possible, and I feel that chill spread over my skin, even without his gaze on me.
“You’re right about that.” Dante’s words are short, clipped. I can’t read either his or Altiere’s expression, but Dante holds the other man’s gaze unflinchingly, until that smirk finally falters.
