"If you walk away from this, if you embarrass the Bellandis, there will be consequences. For you. For the family. A scandal could even erase you from your position as Matteo’s capo and you know this. You?—"
"I'm not walking away from anything because I was never part of it." I pull out my second phone, open my calendar, and scan the next two weeks. "And for your information, I already have a girlfriend. Someone I'm serious about. I'll be introducing her to the family soon, so you can call Massimo his daughter will have to find another stepping stone."
Another pause.
"A girlfriend."
"Yes."
"You've never mentioned anyone."
"Because it's none of your business."
"Everything about this family's reputation is my business, Dante.”
“I’m going to end the call now.”
"You'll regret this."
"I've regretted a lot of things in my life, Pa. Following your advice has never been one, because I stopped listening years ago."
"When do I meet her?" The question catches me off guard. "This… girlfriend of yours."
"When I'm ready."
"Dante—"
"Goodbye, Pa." I end the call before he can respond, toss the phone onto the desk.
My reflection stares back at me from the window. Same cold eyes. Same controlled expression. But underneath, there's a knot of tension that won't unwind.
I hate talking to him. Hate the way he makes me feel like I'm fifteen again, desperate for approval I'll never get. Hate that hecan still get under my skin with mentions of Mom, of scandal, of reputation.
Most of all, I hate that he's right about one thing: rejecting the Bellandis will cause problems. Massimo doesn't take rejection well, and his daughter Caterina takes it even worse.
But that's a problem for tomorrow.
Today, I have a schoolteacher wandering my estate, wearing see-through lace under her modest dress, who just agreed to be my fake girlfriend.
I grab another bottle of water from the bar and drain it.
It doesn't help.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bianca
The dining table could seat twenty people easily.
I'm sitting at one end, alone, staring at a place setting that looks like it belongs in a palace. Crystal glasses. China so delicate I'm afraid to touch it. Silverware heavy enough to be a weapon.
Maria brought my things an hour ago—or what's left of them. Apparently "things" meant three outfits, my toiletries, and the framed photo of Mom I keep on my nightstand. Everything else is being "assessed" by Dante's people, whatever the hell that means.
My dress from earlier was deemed "unsuitable" by Maria, who offered me something from what she called "the guest collection" with an apologetic smile. I ended up in a simple navy dress that's somehow both modest and expensive, the kind of thing I'd never buy for myself because it costs more than my car payment.
At least it covers everything. No risk of accidental underwear reveals in this thing.
The house is massive. Obscenely so. Maria gave me a tour that felt like it lasted hours—the pool house, the gym, the library with more books than I could read in a lifetime, the media room with a screen the size of my classroom wall. Every room perfectly decorated, perfectly clean, perfectly soulless.
