Try not to think about the consequences he promised.
Try not to think about the fact that I'm walking into a room full of dangerous people wearing the wrong dress and probably about to make everything worse.
But as we pull up to Giulio Vitale's estate—easily twice the size of Dante's, all old money and refined taste—I square my shoulders and lift my chin.
If I'm going to play this part, I'm doing it my way.
Even if it costs me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dante
The Corsetti situation took forty minutes to resolve. Forty minutes of listening to Andrea Corsetti whine about territory disputes while I watched the clock and thought about Bianca getting ready at my house.
Wearing the dress I chose.
Playing her part.
Being perfect.
By the time I arrive at my father's estate, it's 6:35. Five minutes late, which is unacceptable, but not catastrophic. The circular driveway is already crowded with luxury cars—Maseratis, Bentleys, a Rolls Royce that belongs to the Bellandi family.
Caterina is here.
Good. Let her watch me introduce someone else.
I'm adjusting my cufflinks when I see Marco's SUV pull up. He gets out first, opens the back door, and?—
My jaw locks. I see red.
THAT is not the green dress I ordered her to wear.
Bianca steps out in navy blue. Modest neckline. Fitted but conservative. Beautiful, yes—she'd look stunning in a fucking garbage bag—but it's not what I told her to wear.
It's not what I specifically,explicitly, told her to wear. I’m going to go fucking crazy.
She sees me. Her chin lifts, defiant, and I know immediately this wasn't an accident. This was deliberate.
Marco and Sal flank her as she walks toward me, her heels clicking on the stone driveway. The gold cross at her throat catches the light.
"You're late," I say when she reaches me, my voice deadly quiet.
"So are you."
"I was handling business. You were—" I stop myself, glance at Marco and Sal. "Give us a moment."
They retreat without question.
The second we're alone, I grab her arm and pull her toward the shadows between two cars, away from the entrance where people are streaming in.
"What the hell are you wearing, Bianca?" I keep my voice low, controlled, even though rage is burning through my chest.
"What does it look like? It’s a dress." She tries to pull her arm free. I don't let her.
"Not the one I chose."
She glares at me. "No. Not that one."
