Two words, neutral as water, and yet they make my jaw clench. Every other woman I've known would be raging or crying or trying to seduce me into compliance by now. Frances just… accepts. Like she expected nothing more.
"Though if you'd like to negotiate exclusive rights," I add, unable to stop myself, "I'm willing to hear your… proposal. I've been told I'm worth the investment."
She doesn't even crack a smile.
The Bentley pulls up to the Marchetti mansion, and I exit first, coming around to offer her my hand. It's all performance, but when her fingers slide into mine, there's a jolt of something electric. She's wearing the dress I had sent to her suite—black silk that molds to her body like liquid shadow, the neckline revealing just enough to be respectable while hinting at more. The dress cost more than most people make in a year, chosen to mark her as mine, as Rosetti property.
What I didn't expect was how she'd look in it.
Frances Hewson should wear it like armor, like the entitled princess she is. But my wife wears it like… like she's playing a part. Like the silk is a costume she's not quite comfortable in. She descends from the car with careful steps, not the confident stride of someone born to wealth but the measured pace of someone afraid to damage something that doesn't belong to them.
Interesting.
"Alessandro!" Vivienne's voice cuts through the night air like nails on crystal. "How wonderful to see you."
My former mistress glides over in red silk that leaves nothing to imagination, her hands immediately finding my chest in a possessive gesture she's perfected over our two-year arrangement. An arrangement that ended three months ago, though she seems determined to forget that detail.
Two years we'd played our game. She'd leave her husband's bed to come to mine, still wearing the jewelry he'd bought her. I liked the irony. She liked the danger. We both got bored eventually—she just hasn't accepted it yet.
"Vivienne." I don't step back, but I don't encourage her either. Let Frances see what kind of man she's married. "You remember my wife."
Vivienne's green eyes slide over Frances like she's collecting flaws. "Of course. The blushing bride. How… sweet." She doesn't move her hands from my chest. "I was just telling Bianca that Alessandro always did prefer women with experience. But I suppose arranged marriages aren't about preference, are they?"
I expect Frances to flinch, to react with jealousy or hurt. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, studying Vivienne with those dark eyes that give nothing away.
"How fortunate then," she says, her voice carrying a hint of something I can't identify, "that my husband has such… accessible options for his preferences. It must be comforting to always have something familiar to return to."
Vivienne blinks, not quite catching the insult. But I do. My wife just called my former mistress common and predictable, all while smiling like a saint.
"Shall we go in?" Frances asks, touching my arm lightly. "I believe the Marchettis are waiting."
She guides us past Vivienne with the grace of someone born to it, except… except her hand on my arm trembles slightly.
The ballroom is already packed with Chicago's criminal elite. The Marchettis know how to throw a party—crystal chandeliers throwing diamonds of light across marble floors, champagne flowing like water, enough security to stop a small army. I make the rounds with Frances on my arm, introducing my wife to associates and enemies alike.
"Beautiful and intelligent," Giovanni Serrano, the ancient don of the Serrano family, says approvingly, patting her hand. "You chose well, Alessandro."
I didn't choose at all, but I don't correct him. I'm too busy watching my wife charm a man who hasn't smiled since his son died ten years ago.
We meet with Sofia and Nico in the room’s center, and I watch as Emma goes quiet, inert. Sofia's phone buzzes, and I watch her face drain of color as she reads the screen. She recovers quickly, that perfect Rosetti composure snapping back into place, but her hand trembles slightly as she slips the phone into her clutch. When Nico asks if everything's alright, she laughs it off as a charity committee emergency. But her eyes keep drifting toward the Russian delegation across the room, and she doesn't touch her champagne for the rest of the evening.
I must remember to ask Dante if he knows what’s going on with her; he and Sofia were always close.
"Alessandro, darling!" Another voice, another former conquest. Bianca Abbascia, wearing white that makes her look like a virgin sacrifice despite being anything but. "Dance with me. For old times' sake?"
She's already pulling me toward the dance floor, and I let her because this is what I do. What I've always done. I collect beautiful women like some men collect cars, enjoying them until I get bored, then moving on to the next model.
But as Bianca presses against me, her perfume cloying and her hands possessive, I find myself looking over her shoulder. Frances is standing by the champagne fountain, and Federico Calese—young, ambitious, and stupid enough to test me—is moving toward her like a shark scenting blood.
"Your wife seems lonely," Bianca purrs, following my gaze. "Poor thing. It must be so hard to be married to a man who everyone knows won't touch her. I heard you haven't even consummated—"
I spin her away mid-sentence, already walking off the dance floor. Bianca calls after me, but I'm focused on Vincent, who'snow standing too close to my wife, his hand on her lower back as he whispers something in her ear.
"Federico." My voice carries enough threat to make him step back. "I believe you were just leaving."
"Alessandro." He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "I was just keeping your lovely wife company. She seemed abandoned."
My hand finds his throat before conscious thought, slamming him against the nearest marble column. The room doesn't stop—violence at these events is expected—but there's a subtle shift in attention.
