More importantly, why do I like it so much?
Val was right. There’s something seriously wrong with me. I think he’s melted all my internal circuitry, and now my wires are screwed up. I shouldn’t find his psychopathy so charming.
“Madonna Mia,” I mutter under my breath. I’ll never hear the end of this if the girls ever see it.
I push those thoughts aside and get to work assembling my look for tonight’s dinner. I have no doubt Angelo’s going to make a big splash as news of his return spreads far and wide. Everyone will have eyes on us, and I’ll now be representing the Vitale name.
Monaco is known for its luxury and high society, so I lean into an old-Hollywood aesthetic. The gown is couture—a glittering gold, off-the-shoulder silhouette with a corseted bodice and Grecian-style draping. It hugs my figure, accentuating my waist and bust, and flatters my curves.
I pair the dress with a Tiffany bangle, Cartier diamond earrings, and a strappy gold metallic heel that coils around my ankle. For hair and makeup, I style a low chignon with loose, face-framing pieces and a natural base, adding just a touch of champagne shimmer to my eyelids.
I’m touching up my nude-pink lipstick when Angelo enters and halts mid-step.
I stare at him in the reflection of the mirror, watching as his gaze sweeps the length of my body. A long beat of silence passes before he scrapes a hand over his face and mutters a low curse.
“Do you like it?” I hate the vulnerability in my voice. I’ve always been confident in my styles, but this one feels more important than all the others somehow.
“Yes.” His voice is a rough caress I feel right between my thighs. “But there’s something missing.”
As he approaches me, I notice he’s carrying a distinct navy blue box with the Harry Winston monogram embossed on the front. I’m effectively shocked into silence.
He pauses behind me, his body heat brushing mine as he opens the box and removes a twenty-two-carat Riviere diamond necklace. I know exactly what it is because I saved it on mypersonal inspiration board, never really believing I’d own one, but dreaming nonetheless.
I try and fail to formulate a sentence as he drapes it around my neck and secures it for me.
“I’ll take that as your approval.” He breathes the words against my ear, the heat of his erection pressing into my back.
“It’s too much,” I whisper.
“You’re my wife now.” He turns me in his arms, inked fingers caressing my face. “I want the world to know it.”
“How could they not?” I stare up at him. “Between the ring on my finger, the ink on my body, and now this…There could never be any question.”
Something dark flickers in his gaze, indicating that for him, it’s still not enough. And in that moment, I realize it never will be. Because he could mark his name on my forehead, and it still won’t change the fact that I let him go.
Guilt makes me stupid, and I reach up on my toes, clutching his face as I try to kiss him. He turns away, rejecting me softly as he kisses my cheek instead.
“Time to go,” he says.
I nod, choking down too many feelings as he takes me by the hand and leads me to the main deck. We deboard the yacht, and after a short walk, we find Nicky and some of the other guards waiting for us with a fleet of vehicles.
Angelo opens the door to a metallic silver Aston Martin, and I pause to do a double take. At first glance, I can’t be sure, but when I notice the eighteen-karat gold accents inside, I know it must be the Goldfinger edition. A car so rare and exclusive that few will ever get the chance to own it.
“Is this even available yet?” I ask.
Angelo arches a brow at me, undoubtedly questioning my sudden interest in cars. I only know about the James Bond-esque commemoration edition because Matteo went into greatdetail about how much he wanted this car. But because of the limited production run and high demand, he wasn’t able to order one. Clearly, Angelo didn’t have the same problem.
Seemingly reading my thoughts, he trails his fingers along the curve of my jaw. “He wanted it, so I took it.”
A shiver of awareness crawls down my spine. Clearly, we’re not just talking about the car anymore.
“Have a seat,cara,” he says.
I do as he instructs, and he pulls the belt across my chest and buckles me in. Once he’s settled into the driver’s seat, we set off into the night.
Angelo navigates the narrow, winding streets of Monte Carlo with precision and ease. We traverse the glittering hillside overlooking the Mediterranean, passing by luxury boutiques and million-dollar supercars. Dotted among the landscape, elegant neighborhoods overflow with cream-colored houses, citrus trees, and bougainvillea.
This is the home of the ultra-wealthy—known for its high-end shopping, famous casino, and Grand Prix. So when we pull up to a gated villa with panoramic views of the entire coastline, I’m not even that surprised.
