Damiano nods. "My office, Tuesday afternoon. Two o'clock?"
"Perfect." Byron swirls his champagne. "I'm curious to see how our distribution channels in Queens are performing."
The business talk makes my presence awkward. This is my chance to escape, to regroup after that kiss that still has my head spinning.
"I'm going to grab a drink," I announce, stepping away from Damiano's touch. "You two can discuss the details without me."
I weave through the crowd, grateful for the momentary freedom. The weight of their expectations—Byron's and Damiano's—feels suffocating sometimes. Each wants something from me, and neither cares what it costs.
I scan the room for a waiter carrying champagne when a man steps into my path. Tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and an expensive suit, he smiles with practiced charm.
"Mrs. Feretti, I believe?" His voice carries a slight Italian accent. "Amerigo Rossi. This is my foundation's event."
I offer my hand. "Mr. Rossi. It's lovely to meet you. The gala is beautiful."
He takes my hand, holding it slightly longer than necessary. "Not nearly as beautiful as you are." His eyes trail over me appreciatively. "I must say, Damiano is a very lucky man."
His gaze lingers on my neckline, making my skin crawl. I've dealt with men like him before—powerful, entitled, convinced their attention is a gift.
"You must have guts to start flirting with Damiano's wife," I reply, my voice sweet but eyes sharp. I maintain my smile for anyone watching, but make sure Rossi sees the warning in my expression.
A flash of surprise crosses his face before he recovers with a practiced chuckle. "I was merely?—"
"Is there something I could do to help you, Amerigo?" Damiano's voice cuts through our conversation likea blade. He materializes beside me, one hand sliding possessively around my waist. I hadn't noticed him approaching, but Rossi's widening eyes tell me he's just realized his mistake. "You seemed lost."
The temperature between the men drops several degrees. Though Damiano's tone remains conversational, the subtle threat beneath his words is unmistakable. His fingers press slightly firmer against my hip, a gesture that somehow feels both possessive and protective.
Rossi recovers quickly, raising his champagne glass in a toast. "Damiano! I was just telling your lovely wife what a fortunate man you are. She's absolutely stunning."
"You're right about that." Damiano pulls me closer, his eyes never leaving Rossi's face. "I am."
I manage a smile, injecting lightness into my voice despite the tension crackling between the men. "I think I need that drink now." I turn to Amerigo, offering a polite nod. "Goodnight, Mr. Rossi. Lovely event."
I slide my hand into Damiano's before he can escalate things further with the foundation head. His fingers close around mine automatically, warm and strong. The physical connection sends an unwelcome jolt up my arm.
When I tug gently, Damiano resists for a moment, his eyes still locked on Rossi. The message is clear:mine, not yours. Only after Rossi takes a subtle step back does Damiano allow me to lead him away.
I stop when we're far enough from Rossi but still visible to the important guests. Turning to face Damiano, I meet his stare directly, refusing to look away first. His eyes burn with something fierce and possessive that makes my breath catch.
"That wasn't necessary," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "I can handle men like Rossi."
Damiano's jaw tightens. "I know you can."
We stand locked in this silent battle, neither willing to break eye contact. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. I'm testing him, and he's testing me right back.
"Should we go grab those drinks?" he finally says, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
A small victory, getting him to speak first. I allow myself a tiny smile in return.
"Lead the way, husband."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The rest of the gala passes in a blur of calculated smiles and strategic conversations. I play my part perfectly—the devoted new wife, charming and attentive. Damiano keeps his hand at my lower back, his thumb occasionally brushing against my bare skin, sending unwanted shivers down my spine.
We leave shortly after midnight, the silence in the car heavy between us. I stare out the window at the passing city lights, grateful for the darkness that hides my expression. Tonight was just theater—a performance for the benefit of others. The kiss, his possessive display with Rossi, all of it designed to sell our story.
So why can't I stop thinking about it?
