Antonio raised his hands in mock surrender, his smile sharp as he walked away.
“You Ferraras are always so dramatic…”
Enrico stayed silent, breathing deeply to rein in his anger.
After a moment’s hesitation, I placed my hand over his on the table, intertwining our fingers—a gesture of mutual support.
“Ignore him,” I murmured, ignoring how fast my heart raced at the contact.
He looked at me, his gaze softening instantly—the icy blue of his eyes melting the second they locked onto mine, once again violating our no-staring rule.
I was trapped in that intensity, unable to look away.
“If you keep looking at me like that, Valentina…” he whispered, voice rough with tension, “…all your damn rules are going straight to hell.”
I widened my eyes slightly and pulled my hand away, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“Better not,” I whispered, turning my gaze aside.
But when I finally dared to look at him again, it was painfully clear—we were skating dangerously close to crossing every line we’d drawn.
And the night was only beginning.
As I struggled to steady my racing heart, the soft music in the ballroom faded, replaced by the master of ceremonies’ voice over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention for a moment! It’s time for one of the most anticipated traditions of the Caravaggio Foundation’s gala—our opening dance!”
My body froze.
“And tonight,” he continued cheerfully, “we’d like to invite a couple we’re sure you’ll be delighted to see on the dance floor. Enrico Ferrara and his beautiful wife, Valentina Ferrara—would you honor us by opening the dance?”
My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it.
I looked at Enrico, who was already standing, composed, extending his hand toward me.
“We have to,” he said quietly—firm, meaningful—as his fingers wrapped around mine again.
I inhaled deeply, gathering my courage.
He led me to the center of the dance floor with effortless confidence, as if this were the most natural thing in the world for us.
All eyes were on us. I forced myself to appear calm as my pulse raced.
Gently, Enrico placed a hand at my waist, pulling me closer. My hand rested on his broad shoulder. I swallowed, fighting the dangerous urge to melt into him.
“Relax, Valentina,” he whispered as the music began. “Pretend I’m someone you can tolerate for a few minutes.”
I looked up at him, trying—and failing—to keep my expression neutral.
“That’s harder than you think,” I murmured dryly, surprising myself with the honesty in my voice.
He smiled faintly and drew me closer. His lips brushed near my ear as we turned slowly, our bodies dangerously close.
“If it helps,” he murmured, “we’ve only just started—and dancing with you already feels like a special kind of torture. Because all I can think about is that when the music ends, I’ll have to stop touching you.”
A shiver tore down my spine.
We moved in perfect sync, following the slow, seductive rhythm, as if we’d danced together a hundred times before.
