“Giuliana,” Luca continues, “Viktor Torrino and his daughter, Natasha.”
My mouth dries. This is the man.
The reason I’m here, dressed like a doll and playing pretend for an audience of criminals and corrupt politicians.
The territorial alliance that requires my captivity and cooperation.
“Miss Conti,” Viktor says, his accent placing him somewhere in Eastern Europe decades ago. It pisses me off to be called ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Doctor.’ He takes my hand with old-world courtesy, his blue eyes studying me intently. “You are even lovelier than Luca described. He’s been quite secretive about you. We were beginning to think you were a fiction.”
“I assure you, I’m very real,” I manage to say, my voice steady despite the horror churning in my stomach.
“Indeed.” Viktor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you’ve agreed to marry this dangerous man? You must be either very brave or very foolish.”
The comment is clearly a test disguised as a joke.
I feel Luca’s hand tighten against my back, a warning to tread carefully.
“I prefer to think of it as very lucky,” I say, forcing warmth into my voice. “Not many women get to marry their best friend.”
Natasha’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise slightly, and something flickers in her expression that I can’t read.
Viktor laughs, a booming sound that draws attention from nearby conversations.
“Well said, my dear! Luca, you’ve found yourself a clever one.” He claps Luca on the shoulder with the familiarity of equals. “We should discuss the North Side arrangements over drinks. If you’ll excuse us, ladies?”
The men move away toward the bar, leaving me alone with Natasha Torrino, who studies me like I’m a particularly interesting specimen under glass.
“Shall we get some air?” she suggests, her voice carrying the kind of authority that makes it clear this isn’t really a request. It’s an order. “It’s stifling in here.”
Part of me wants to object, but I know better than that. I follow her through the crowd toward a set of French doors that open onto a terrace overlooking Michigan Avenue.
The October air is cool against my overheated skin, and I breathe deeply, savoring the brief escape from the ballroom’s suffocating atmosphere.
Natasha leans against the stone balustrade, her white gown glowing in the light spilling from the ballroom.
Up close, she’s even more beautiful—perfect features, flawless skin, and the kind of effortless elegance that comes from a lifetime of privilege.
“So,” she says, studying her manicured nails with studied casualness, “how did you really meet Luca?”
The question catches me off guard. “I-I’m sorry?”
“Come now,Dr. Conti. We’re both intelligent women.” She looks up at me, and her blue eyes are sharp despite her friendly tone.
My heart pounds against my chest at her use of my title.
Someone has been researching me.
Who else has?
“Luca Marchetti has been eligible for years,” Natasha continues. “He’s wealthy, powerful, and devastatingly handsome. Every woman in our circles has tried to catch his attention at some point. Including me, I’ll admit. And he’s never shown the slightest interest in any of us.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Maybe he was waiting for the right person.”
“Or maybe,” Natasha continues, her voice dropping lower, “his sudden engagement is about something other than romance. My father has been negotiating this territorial alliance for quite a while. The timing is convenient, don’t you think?”
She knows. Or she suspects. And she’s testing me, trying to see if I’ll crack under pressure.
“I don’t know what you’re implying?—”
