"Shall we move to dinner?" Marco suggests, ending the moment before it can escalate.
The formal dining room feels smaller with all of us around the table. I seat Emma to my right, keeping her within easy reach, my hand immediately finding her thigh under the tablecloth. The touch is possessive, grounding for both of us. She doesn't pull away, if anything her legs part slightly, and fuck, that small surrender makes me adjust myself under the table.
The courses begin to arrive: seven in total, each one another opportunity for her to stumble over etiquette she supposedly learned in Switzerland.
The salad course arrives with its collection of silver implements, and I watch Emma study the forks for a fraction of a second before selecting one. She chooses correctly, but the hesitation is there for anyone looking closely enough.
And Sofia is always looking.
"Oh darling," my sister coos, her voice dripping false concern. "You're holding that fork so tightly! Like you're afraid someone might snatch it away." She laughs, the sound like crystal breaking. "Don't worry, we're not that kind of family. Well, not at dinner anyway."
My fingers itch for the knife in my jacket, imagining Sofia's perfect manicure ruined by broken fingers. Only the fact she's family keeps her bones intact. My other hand tightens on Emma's thigh, feeling her tremble.
"You know," Sofia continues, voice still honeyed, "some people have these habits they simply can't shake. The way they handle crystal so carefully, like it might shatter. The way they eat quickly, efficiently. But I'm sure that's just… adjustment stress. Right, darling?"
But then something shifts in Emma's expression. The fear doesn't disappear, but dignity rises alongside it, transforming her face into something almost regal. She sets down her fork deliberately, straightens her spine until she could balance a book on her head.
"You're absolutely right," Emma says, her voice steady now. "I do have habits."
Sofia's eyes glitter with triumph, but Emma isn't finished.
"I have the habit of recognizing insecurity when it dresses itself in designer silk." Emma's voice stays soft, controlled, which makes it more devastating. "I have the habit of seeing when someone feels so threatened by another woman at their table that they need to establish dominance through… what did you call it? Sweet concern?"
Sofia's mouth opens, but Emma continues with that same regal calm.
"You've been circling me since I arrived, looking for weakness while pretending to help. But here's what your'concern' reveals: you're terrified. Terrified that someone who doesn't play by your rules might actually belong here. That someone who wasn't born into this family might earn it instead."
Watching her transform from frightened prey into this dignified queen makes my cock so hard I can barely think straight. Christ, I'm going to fuck her against the wall the moment we're alone, make her scream while she's still wearing that dignity like armor.
"How dare you," Sofia starts, the sweetness finally dropping.
Dante's hands move sharply: "Stop, Sofia. She's ours now."
The declaration from my mute brother, who never wastes a gesture, reshapes the entire room. Even Sofia understands what just happened.
"Enough," Marco says, that single word absolute. He rises, selecting his wine glass with deliberate precision. The crystal catches candlelight as he raises it.
"To Frances," he says, using her assumed name with particular weight. "Don't disappoint us."
Simple. Direct. But from Marco, it's a benediction. The family drinks, accepting her into the fold through the patriarch's decree.
I can't help the pride that floods through me, mixing with the arousal that's been building since Emma found her spine. My hand slides higher on her thigh, fingers tracing the edge of her stockings. She doesn't pull away. If anything, she shifts slightly to give me better access. Fuck.
"Thank you," Emma says to Marco, her voice steady though I feel her pulse racing under my touch. "I understand what this family represents. I won't disappoint that trust."
"Good." Marco sits back down, already moving on.
Sofia stands abruptly, her chair scraping against hardwood. Her sweet mask is completely gone now, replaced by barely controlled fury.
"If you'll excuse me," she says tightly, "I need air."
Sofia touches my shoulder as she passes. "Just be careful, brother. The last time you trusted too quickly…" She doesn't finish, but the concern in her eyes is real beneath the ice.
She leaves without waiting for permission, her heels clicking sharp against marble. The sound fades, leaving behind a different kind of silence: settled, like blood after a clean kill.
Dante signs something complex to Marco, something about security protocols for tomorrow. The conversation shifts to business, territory disputes, the Irish getting too bold near the docks. Emma listens more than speaks, but when she does contribute, it's with that same quiet intelligence that dismantled Sofia's attack.
Watching her navigate this world, my world, with growing confidence makes me want to reward her in ways that will have her screaming my name. The way she claimed her place at our table, Christ, I'm going to make her come so hard tonight she forgets her own name.
