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It’s then I notice his tie is a deep green, the exact color of my dress. Not a perfect, fair blue.
I smile at him, not the siren smile, not intending to wreck his boat on my shores, but the sweet princess. The one he protects.
My hand moves out to take hers. “Lovely to meet you, Angela. I’ve heard all about you,” I say, and my eyes tell her exactly what those words mean in a way that only a woman can translate.
A small noise comes from Marco’s throat, but I just smile.
The bitch stares at my hand and nearly sneers at it.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Funny. I’ve never heard about you. Lily, was it?”
“Yes, well, Dante and I do spend quite a bit of time together,” I say, playing the game, and I watch with pleasure as her face turns a light pink that clashes with her dress. "More time to dish, you know?"
She hasn’t learned how this game works, clearly. Hasn’t figured out how to hide when the punches hit, how to predict the next move. She’s standing in front of me, refusing to shake my hand, and we both know it’s not me who looks silly.
Her lips purse just a fraction before she puts her hand out limply, giving me a half-assed shake.
“Dante, can you come with me? I have someone I’d like to introduce you to.”
“Maybe later, Angela,” he says, and then he has his own nonverbal conversation with the bitch.
Leave. Now, his eyes say.
She sucks her teeth but looks at me, thinking we’re still in some kind of battle.
The poor thing.
“I’ll see you at dinner, Marco. Nice to meet you, Danielle,” she says, and Marco actually uses a foot on my exposed toe to keep me from laughing.
“She seems delightful,” I say low when it’s just us three in the corner, no one within 10 feet of us.
“Delilah,” Dante warns, and Marco finally lets out a small laugh.
“Just saying. You could have picked a better cover. A nicer one, maybe,” I say.
“Delilah,” he repeats.
“Nice tie, by the way. Is that ivy on it?” I ask, taking the time now to see the nearly invisible pattern of leaves on it.
“Covered in you, fiorella,” he whispers, and a chill runs down my spine at the memory of our conversation, about my wanting to be deadly like poison ivy instead of a delicate flower. Such a small moment so long ago that he clearly remembers.
“Good thing you're not allergic,” I whisper in return. He smiles, and suddenly, although a chill in the air tells me the night is only going to get worse, my belly warms.
Everything is going to be okay because this man wants to be covered in me and me alone.
“You should mingle, boss man,” Marco murmurs, looking around the room. “Don’t want to attract any whispers.”
“Got it,” Dante says and then looks at me. “Tonight, I’ll be by. No matter what fucking happens, Delilah, you wait for me in your room.”
“What?”
“Yes?”
“Dante—"
“Agree, Delilah.”
