"That wasn't a request."
After a moment's hesitation, she sits, but her posture screams defiance. "This isn't my fault, Cesare. I didn't talk to any reporters."
"I know that." I move around the desk to face her directly. "But you're caught in the middle of it now. Your reputation, our alliance, everything is at risk."
Her eyes flash with anger. "My reputation? What about yours? You're the one marrying someone young enough to be your daughter."
The words hit harder than I expect. For a moment, I see myself through her eyes, a middle-aged man forcing a teenager into marriage. The image isn't flattering.
"Careful," I warn, voice low. "You're walking a dangerous line."
"Am I?" She stands, facing me directly. "Because from where I'm standing, I'm already fucked. My name is plastered across newspapers as a 'child bride.' My future is being picked apart by strangers. What more can you threaten me with?"
Her boldness catches me off guard. Most people cower when I use that tone. But Vittoria? She stands taller, meets my gaze head-on.
"You want to know what I think?" she continues, voice rising slightly. "I think you're scared. Scared that this alliance will fall apart, scared that your precious reputation can't handle the truth."
I move closer, using my height advantage to intimidate. "And what truth is that?"
"That you're a forty-two-year-old man who needs to marry a teenager to secure power. That your family is so weak, you need my father's connections to survive."
The words are like a slap. Before I can stop myself, my hand shoots out, gripping her chin roughly, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"Listen carefully," I growl, voice deadly quiet. "You may think you know this world, but you have no fucking idea what I'm capable of. Push me too far, and you'll discover just how dangerous I can be."
Instead of fear, I see defiance blaze brighter in her eyes. "Go ahead," she whispers. "Prove exactly what kind of man you really are."
For a moment, we stare at each other, predator and prey, but I'm no longer sure who's which. The tension between us is electric, dangerous.
Then, before I can stop myself, I'm kissing her again. Hard, demanding, possessive. She responds immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt as she kisses me back with equal intensity.
This time, I don't pull away.
I back her against the wall, my body pressing into hers. She's so fucking responsive, arching against me, little gasps escaping her lips as I trail kisses down her neck.
"Cesare," she breathes, and hearing my name fall from her lips like that nearly undoes me.
I grab her thighs, lifting her until her legs wrap around my waist. The black skirt she’s wearing rides up her legs, and I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric between us.
"Tell me to stop," I growl against her throat, even as my hands roam her body.
She doesn't. If anything, she pulls me closer.
"Fuck," I breathe, grinding against her. I want her so badly I can barely think straight. But somewhere in the back of my mind, reason prevails.
Not like this. Not against a wall in my study like some desperate teenager.
When I make her mine, and I will, it'll be properly. In my bed, on our wedding night, where she belongs.
I force myself to step back, both of us breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed, hair messed from my hands. She looks thoroughly debauched, and it takes everything in me not to finish what we started.
"Go," I say roughly, my voice strained.
She stares at me for a moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then she straightens her dress, smooths her hair, and walks toward the door.
"Vittoria," I call out just as she reaches for the handle.
She pauses, looking back at me.
