Silence.
"Excellent." He pulls out my chair with exaggerated courtesy. "Shall we finish lunch, stellina?"
I sit carefully, intensely aware of my bare pussy against the chair's fabric. Around me, women suddenly remember urgent compliments about my suit, my hair, my generous donation.
Under the table, Alessandro's hand finds my thigh, sliding higher until his fingers brush against my still-wet folds. I have to bite my lip to stay silent as he traces lazy circles, keeping me on edge.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For seeing Emma and wanting her anyway."
His finger slides inside me under the table, making me grip my water glass. "I don't want you anyway," he murmurs. "I want you because you're Emma. One day, when you let me, I'm going to show you exactly how much."
15 - Alessandro
Before we get to spend the night together and I can make good on my promise to show Emma exactly how much I want her, we have to make it through dinner.
Emma's hand trembles slightly as she adjusts the sapphire necklace I selected, and I wonder if my family can smell her fear like blood in the water, if they're already circling for the kill.
"Remember," I murmur against Emma's ear as we enter, my hand possessive on her lower back, fingers splaying to claim more territory, "they test because they care. Cruelty is how we show love in this family."
She manages a slight smile, but I feel the tension thrumming through her body where it presses against mine. The sapphire at her throat catches the light with each shallow breath. I chose it specifically: the exact shade of the Rosetti family crest.
Cocktail hour has already begun. Marco stands by the fireplace, watching our entrance with those dark eyes that miss nothing. To his right, Dante signs something to Nico, who nods. Sofia perches on the leather sofa like a blonde viper in cream silk, her smile sweet enough to rot teeth.
"The newlyweds arrive," Marco says, voice carrying that particular tone that makes grown men reconsider their life choices. "Nearly three weeks married and already forgetting family obligations?"
"How could I forget?" I guide Emma forward, keeping my touch light but present, thumb stroking the base of her spinethrough silk. "Emma was simply ensuring she looked perfect for the family."
Marco's gaze travels over her methodically. The navy dress I selected hugs her curves without being vulgar, expensive enough to show respect, conservative enough to show sense. His eyes linger on the sapphire necklace, and I see the slight nod: not approval, just acknowledgment.
"Drink?" Nico appears with a tray, ever the perfect soldier even in social situations.
"The Château Margaux," I answer, knowing Emma needs liquid courage. The '82 vintage carries weight in every sip, tastes like old money and new violence: perfect for a Rosetti table where both flow freely.
As she takes the crystal glass, I notice how she holds it: both hands at first, like she's afraid she'll drop something so delicate, before adjusting to one hand when she catches Sofia watching. These little tells that only I see, the servant habits she can't quite shake. They make my cock harder than it should at a family dinner. Christ, the way she tries so hard.
"Where are Luca and Faith?" I ask, noting their absence.
"Pregnancy complications," Marco replies curtly. "Doctor's orders to rest."
"So," Marco continues, settling into his leather chair with the kind of authority that reshapes rooms around him. "Tell me about these new transport routes you've been proposing, Alessandro. Through Hewson territory."
A test within a test. Business talk to see if Emma knows our operations, if she's been listening, if she can be trusted with family secrets.
"The northern corridors are more efficient," I reply smoothly, watching Emma from the corner of my eye. "With the Hewson connection, we avoid the Irish completely."
"And the Hewsons are reliable?" Marco's tone suggests he already knows the answer. "I hear they've had some… difficulties lately. That boy, Tommy Pitt, arrested for assault. Prison riots are so… unpredictable."
Emma's fingers tighten imperceptibly on her wine glass. Anyone else would miss it, but I see everything about her now. The way her breath catches for half a second before she schools her features into polite interest.
I picture this Tommy's face, imagine introducing myself with a crowbar to his knees if he ever threatens what Emma's sacrificed for him. The thought of another man commanding such loyalty from her makes violence pool in my gut, even if he is her brother.
"How awful," she says, voice pitched perfectly between concern and distance. "Prison can be so dangerous for the unprepared."
Marco's eyes sharpen with interest. Not the response he expected from a sheltered heiress. "Indeed."
