Right. Business. The party. The sodding plan.
I straighten my jacket, smooth my expression back into neutrality. When I look at Bianca again, her cheeks are flushed, her breathing unsteady. The attraction between us is a living thing, dangerous and unwanted.
"Fix your lipstick," I tell her quietly. "And when we go in there, you're going to be perfect. Understood?"
She nods, pulling out a small compact from her clutch.
I offer her my arm. After a moment's hesitation and what feels like a full minute glare, she takes it.
"One more thing," I say as we start walking toward the entrance. " I promise you, Bianca—there will be consequences."
"Looking forward to it," she mutters.
The entrance hall is magnificent. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, enough wealth on display to feed a small country. Waiterscirculate with champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The crowd is a mix of old money and dangerous men—senators, judges, capos from allied families.
And standing in the center of it all, holding court, is my father.
Giulio Vitale at seventy looks like what he is: a man who was once powerful and can't quite accept that his time has passed. Silver hair perfectly styled. Expensive suit. The kind of commanding presence that comes from decades of getting exactly what he wants.
Next to him, like a viper in designer clothing, is Caterina Bellandi.
She's beautiful in the way a statue is beautiful—cold, perfect, untouchable. Dark hair swept up, revealing a neck dripping with diamonds. A red dress that looks like it was made from people’s blood. She sees me and smiles in a way she thinks is sexy but I find predatory.
"Dante." My father's voice carries across the room. "Finally. Come, introduce us to this mysterious girlfriend we've heard so much about."
Game time.
The crowd parts as we approach. I can feel dozens of eyes on us, assessing, judging, looking for weaknesses but they’ll find none.
Bianca's hand tightens on my arm. I cover it with mine, a gesture that looks affectionate but is really a warning:hold it together, fuck this up and it won’t be pretty.
"Father." I stop in front of him, keeping my expression pleasant. "Happy birthday. This is Bianca Mancini. Bianca, my father Giulio Vitale."
"Mr. Vitale." Bianca extends her hand, her smile warm but not excessive. "Thank you so much for having me on a beautiful day like this. Your home is beautiful."
My father takes her hand, studies her with the sharp gaze that used to make senators squirm. "Mancini. Italian?"
Bianca beams. "Yes, sir. My family is from Napoli originally."
"Hmm, and what do you do, Miss Mancini?"
"I'm a second-grade teacher. P.S. 87 in Queens."
I see it immediately—the slight narrowing of his eyes. The almost imperceptible curl of his lip. A teacher. From Queens. Not exactly the pedigree he was hoping for.
"How... noble," Caterina says, her voice is basically honey-sweet poison. She steps forward, extending her hand to Bianca. "Caterina Bellandi. I'm an old family friend."
"It's lovely to meet you," Bianca says, shaking her hand.
"That's a beautiful dress." Caterina's eyes rake over Bianca's navy-blue gown. "Very... modest. Is that your personal style, or did Dante pick it out for you?"
The question is a trap. If Bianca says I picked it, she looks controlled. If she says it's her style, she looks unsophisticated.
"Oh this? I picked it," Bianca says smoothly. "Dante gave me several options, but I felt this one was the most appropriate for meeting his father. I wanted the focus to be on the conversation, not the clothing."
I stop the surprised twitch of my brow just in time.
Subtle. Smart. I had a say but she chose modesty out of respect.
