But I keep one eye on Bianca the whole time.
She's good for about ten minutes. Stands by the bar, drinks her water, looks bored but composed.
Then some motherfucking asshole in a navy suit approaches her.
Young. Maybe late twenties. Probably one of the Bellandi cousins or associates. The kind of guy who thinks his family name gives him permission to talk to anyone.
He says something. Bianca smiles—polite, not warm.
He says something else. Her smile widens.
Then she laughs.
Actually laughs, throwing her head back slightly, one hand coming up to touch his arm.
What the fuck?
Heat explodes in my chest.
I'm moving before I think about it, cutting through the crowd with single-minded focus. The conversation I was having—some senator droning on about infrastructure—dies mid-sentence as I walk away.
I reach them in ten seconds.
"Dante!" Bianca's smile is bright. Too bright. "This is Nate?—"
"I don't care who he is." I grab her arm, not rough but firm enough that she knows I'm done playing. "We're leaving."
"We just got here?—"
"Now."
I pull her toward the hallway leading to the back of the estate. She stumbles slightly in her heels but keeps up, probably because making a scene would be worse than following me.
The hallway is empty. Quiet. All marble and expensive art nobody actually looks at.
I shove her against the wall.
Not hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to make a point.
"What the hell was that?" My voice comes out low and barely controlled.
"What was what?" She glares up at me. "Having a conversation?"
"Laughing. Touching him. Making me look like an idiot while you flirt with some random asshole?—"
"I wasn't flirting!" She shoves at my chest. "I was being polite! He asked about my job and I answered like a normal person having a normal conversation?—"
"There's nothing normal about this." I cage her in with my arms, palms flat against the wall on either side of her head. "You're here with me. As my girlfriend. And you're out there acting like you're available,. You like him?”
I’m going to fucking murder that asshole.
"Maybe I like men who don't treat me like property."
The words land like a slap.
I lean in closer, until my lips nearly brush hers. Until I can see the pulse hammering in her throat. "Youaremy property. Whether you like it or not."
"You're—"
