"We need to talk," I say, moving to sit across from her.
I settle into the chair across from Zoe, studying her face.
"We're taking a trip to Chicago," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "Business."
Zoe's eyebrow arches. "Chicago?"
"We have a meeting with the Sartori family." I run my thumb along my bottom lip, considering how much to tell her. "Riccardo Sartori runs the Chicago territory. Our families have maintained a respectful distance for years, but we've been discussing a potential partnership."
"Who is Sartori exactly?" Zoe asks, leaning forward slightly. "And when are we supposed to go there?"
"He's one of the most powerful men in the Midwest." I watch her process this information. "The Sartori family controls everything from Detroit to Milwaukee. Old Italian blood, traditional values. Riccardo inherited the business from his father about eleven years ago."
"And we're going... when exactly?"
"Friday morning." I stand and move to the window, looking out at the gardens where we pay a small fortune to keep everything perfectly manicured. "It's a working dinner, and Riccardo specifically requested that I bring you."
Zoe's eyes narrow. "Why would he care if I'm there?"
"Because you're my wife." The word still feels strange on my tongue. "The Sartoris place enormous value on family bonds. They'll want to see us together, to measure our... compatibility."
"You mean you need me to play the loving wife again," she says flatly.
I turn back toward her. "Yes. But more convincingly than ever. The Sartoris aren't just business associates. If this partnership works, they become family in a sense."
Zoe gives me a calculated look, one I've come to recognize: measuring her words before speaking.
"We managed just fine at the gala," she says, crossing one leg over the other. "The cameras certainly seemed convinced. I think we can handle the Sartoris." Her lips curve slightly. "Besides, we're a bit closer now, aren't we?"
The reference to last night hangs between us. I study her, trying to read past that carefully constructed facade.
"That's up to you," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "I was under the impression last night was just a game for you."
Something flashes in her eyes—anger, perhaps, or pride.
"I don't play games with my body, Damiano." Her voice turns sharp, the words precise as knife points. "Whatever else you might think of me, I'm not someone who uses sex as a manipulation tactic."
I take a step back, surprised by the edge in her voice.Something shifts in her expression—hurt, maybe, behind that wall of defiance.
"That's not what I meant," I say, my voice softening. "Last night wasn't..." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to find the right words. "I don't think you're playing games with me. Not like that."
Her eyes meet mine, searching for the truth.
Fuck it.
I cross the room in three strides, pull her to her feet, and cup her face in my hands. Before she can protest, I press my lips to her forehead, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.
"Damiano—" she starts to say, but I silence her with another kiss on her other cheek, her temple, the tip of her nose.
She stiffens at first, then something unexpected happens—she laughs. A real laugh that lights up her eyes and softens everything about her.
"What are you doing?" she asks, still laughing as I continue placing kisses all over her face.
"Convincing you," I murmur against her skin, "that I don't think you're playing games with me."
Her hands come up to my chest, not pushing me away but resting there. "You're ridiculous," she says, but there's no heat behind it.
I pull back enough to look at her, keeping my hands on her face. "Is it working?"
