Not when I'm finally admitting to myself that this stopped being fake the moment I kissed her.
"One more dance," I say as a new song begins and pull her even closer, my hand splaying across her lower back. "Let them see how obsessed I am with you. Let them wonder how a teacher from Queens managed to completely destroy my self-control."
"Is that what I've done?"
"Yes." The admission should feel like defeat. Instead, it feels like relief. "You've gotten under my skin, Bianca Mancini. And I'mstarting to think there's no getting you out." Though my words come out as a tease rather than what they seem to be.
She rolls her eyes in response, and I hope she doesn’t realize I'm not playing a role anymore. That this confession is real.
That I'm in trouble.
We both are.
The music swells, and we keep dancing, and somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is a mistake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Bianca
I need to get away from him.
From Dante. And this damned dance floor.
I excuse myself with a murmured word about needing the powder room, and he lets me go with a look that says this conversation isn't over.
The powder room is down a long hallway lined with family portraits—generations of Vitales staring down at me with cold eyes. I'm almost there when a voice stops me.
"Excuse me, miss?"
I turn. Richard—the client from earlier—is standing a few feet away, looking uncertain.
My goodness, not again.
"Yes?" I keep my voice steady, pleasant, like we're strangers.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but—" He steps closer, lowering his voice. "I've been thinking about it all night. I'm certain we've met before."
"I don't think so." I try to move past him, but he shifts, blocking my path without being obvious about it. We're standing too close now, in a quiet corner of the hallway. To anyone watching, it would look intimate and I can’t have that.
"I never forget a face," he continues. "And yours—there's something so familiar. Il Solito? About three years ago?"
My heart hammers. "I've never been to Il Solito."
"Are you sure? Because I could swear?—"
"I'm a teacher," I cut him off, my voice tight. "I teach second grade in Queens. I can barely afford to eat at Olive Garden, let alone Il Solito. You must be thinking of someone else."
He studies me, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. The pieces clicking into place despite my denial.
"I'm not trying to cause trouble?—"
"Then stop talking to me." The words come out sharper than I intended. "Please. You have the wrong person."
"But—"
"She said she doesn't know you."
We both freeze.
