"My wife."
Silence.
She stops mid-sentence, mouth still open, and clamps shut. Her eyes flash. “I said I’m not going to sleep with you.” She growls and I chuckle.
“And I said I don’t want you to.”
That little bit might be a lie. I admit I wouldn’t mind to see if her lips are as soft as they look, if she tastes as feisty and raw as she acts.
I watch understanding flicker across her face. Then disbelief. Then hysterical laughter.
"Your wife," she repeats slowly.
"Temporary wife. For appearances." I check my watch—platinum Patek Philippe, a gift from Matteo after a triple homicide burial. "My father is pressuring me to marry. A political alliance with a woman I have no interest in. You're going to help me avoid that."
"By pretending to be in love with you."
"Exactly."
She laughs then, sharp and bitter, rubbing her hands through her hair. "You're insane. You know that, right? Completely insane."
"Perhaps." I study her—the way she's standing with her weight forward like she's ready to fight, the way her fingers keep finding that gold cross at her throat. "But you're still standing here instead of running. Which tells me you understand exactly what's at stake."
Her jaw tightens. "My mother."
"Your mother," I agree.
A tear drops down her eye and I watch it roll down to her cheeks. “You're heartless," she whispers.
I raise a brow. "In my world, Miss Mancini, anything else means weakness. Weakness gets you killed, your boyfriend understood that. He chose survival over loyalty. Smart man."
"He's a coward!”
"He's alive."
She flinches, and I know I've made my point.
The mention of mothers—of watching someone waste away while you're powerless to stop it—sends a cold spike through my gut. I see my own mother's face for a split second. The glassy eyes. The smell of vodka and vomit. The way her hand went slack in mine.
I crush the memory before it can take root.
"So." Bianca straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin. "If I'm going to do this, I have conditions."
The audacity of it makes me want to laugh. Or applaud. I settle for an amused tilt of my head. "Conditions."
"Yes."
"You're not in a position to negotiate."
"Then I won't cooperate." She crosses her arms. "You can drag me to your house, dress me up, parade me around, but I won't smile. I won't play the loving girlfriend. I'll make you look like exactly what you are—a monster who bought a woman."
Interesting.
Most people fold when I apply pressure. They beg, they cry, they accept whatever scraps I throw them. But this schoolteacher with her bargain store clothes and gold cross is standing in a room full of men who could break her in half, and she's making demands.
I find myself intrigued despite my better judgment.
"You think you have leverage here?" I take a step toward her. Then another.
