"Touch my wife again," I say quietly, pressure on his windpipe just enough to make him wheeze, "and I'll mail pieces of you to your mother until she runs out of tears. Understand?"
He nods frantically, and I release him. When I turn, Frances is watching me with an expression I can't read. Not fear, not gratitude. Something else. Something that makes my blood heat.
"Dance with me," I command, not asking.
She comes without hesitation, and I pull her onto the floor perhaps more roughly than necessary. The orchestra is playing something slow and classical, forcing us close. Her hand in mine is more hesitant than I expected, more delicate. She smells different than the other women here—no overwhelming perfume, just something clean and soft that makes me want to lean closer.
"You didn't have to do that," she says as we move together.
"You're a Rosetti now. No one touches my things."
"Even if you don't want them?"
The question catches me off-guard. I look down at her. "What makes you think I don't want you?"
She laughs, soft and bitter. "You made your feelings quite clear in the car."
We turn, and I pull her closer, close enough to feel her breath catch. "Did I?"
"You said—"
"I know what I said." My hand spreads across her lower back, feeling the heat of her through silk. "But you're not what I expected, Frances."
Something flickers in her eyes. Fear? "What did you expect?"
"Tears. Tantrums. Demands for attention, for affection, for the fairy tale you were promised." I spin her, bringing her back against my chest. "Instead, you listen to boring old men tell war stories. You insult my former mistresses with a smile. You don't even flinch when I nearly strangle someone for touching you."
"Should I flinch?"
"Most would."
She doesn't reply. The song ends, but I don't release her. Can't seem to make my hands let go. She's looking up at me with those dark eyes that hold secrets I suddenly want to uncover.
"Alessandro." Marco's voice breaks the spell. My brother stands at the edge of the dance floor, his expression carefully neutral. "The Contis want to discuss the harbor situation."
Business. Always business. I release Frances, already missing the warmth of her against me. "Wait by the bar. I'll be back."
She nods, moving away with that same careful grace, and I force myself to focus on the matter at hand. The Conti meeting is predictable—they want a bigger cut of the harbor profits, I remind them why that won't happen, everyone leaves unhappy but alive. If my reminder doesn't work, we'll have to bring in Luca.
When I return to the bar, Frances is gone.
I find her on the terrace, helping a young server who's dropped an entire tray of champagne. She's on her knees in that expensive dress, gathering glass with careful hands while the server nearly cries with relief. It's such an odd sight—a mafia wife doing servant's work—that I simply stand and watch.
""Careful, princess," I say. "On your knees in that dress is giving me ideas we can't pursue at a Marchetti party. They're traditional about public displays."
She looks up, startled, and for just a moment, I see something raw in her expression. Fear. Not of me, but of being caught. Being seen.
"It's just fabric," she says, standing and smoothing her skirt. The server scurries away with the broken glass, and we're alone on the terrace, city lights stretching below us.
"Most people would have let him handle it."
"You keep thinking I'm like most people," she says, a small smile playing at her lips.
I move closer, drawn by something I can't name. "But you're not. Most people bore me within minutes. You've managed to keep my attention for an entire evening. That's either very dangerous or very promising. Possibly both. You're a puzzle, Frances Hewson."
She tenses. "Everyone has secrets."
"What are yours?"
