He lifts an imperious eyebrow and I catch the sardonic mockery in there that sets my teeth on edge. “I just did, sweetheart.”
The tablet wobbles a little in my hand as a part of me wonders if he’d just attempted to soften me with a spine-melting orgasm. Then I shake my head. “You’re petting a venomous snake and expecting it not to bite,” I snap. “That’s just asking for a world of pain. Pain you deserve.”
He smiles slowly. “Only if you forget to keep the antidote close.”
He snaps his fingers again. And like trained performers, the stylists trudge back in, returning to their tasks as if nothing at all was amiss.
Giovanni takes the tablet from my hands, turns back to his phone as he saunters out of the dressing room.
And I stand there, heart pounding,realisingwith sick clarity that I am no longer circling danger.
I’m living on its edge.
The house undergoesa spectacular transformation as evening approaches.
Not in any way that can be pinned down to a single moment or gesture, but gradually, like a tide creeping higher up the shore until yourealisethe water is already around your ankles and retreat is no longer an option.
Men arrive, in waves of power and influence. But their arrival is doused in stealth and hushed whispers that take me a moment torealisethey’re not part of the guest list.
That a different kind of pre-event is happening right now.
They filter into Dragoni Estate with the quiet confidence of people who know they belong there, men in tailored suits and coats that conceal more than they reveal, men whose eyes flick constantly, cataloguing exits, distances, threats, and opportunities with unnerving efficiency.
And when my husband leads me into this study, it falls into place.
They’re Giovanni’s lieutenants.
I recognise the type instantly, even if I don’t know the faces yet, the ones who don’t need to announce their authority because it radiates from them regardless.
Giovanni introduces them without ceremony, one hand firm at the small of my back as though I might drift away if he loosens his grip even slightly.
“Marco DeLuca,” he says, gesturing to a broad-shouldered man with steel-grey hair and eyes that miss nothing. “He ran Naples before I took New York.”
Marco inclines his head to me, respectful but unyielding. “Signora.”
“Raffaele Conti,” Giovanni continues, indicating a younger man with an almost academic air, wire-rim glasses and the posture of someone who looks more like a lawyer than an enforcer. “Logistics. Counterintelligence.”
Raffaele smiles faintly. “It’s an honour, Mrs. Dragoni.”
“And Luca Ferraro,” Giovanni finishes, nodding at a man who looks deceptively relaxed, hands loose at his sides, dark eyes sharp with predatory focus. “He’ll be close.”
Close.
The word settles unpleasantly in my chest.
“These men,” Giovanni says calmly, “now form your personal security. Non-negotiable.”
I turn to him slowly, heat rising instantly. “Absolutely negotiable.”
His hand tightens at my back. “No, baby. It’s not.”
It’s calm and I could almost fool myself into thinking there’s a sliver of regret in there, but when I look into his eyes, I see how wrong I am.
He’s not going to budge on this.
Well, neither am I. “I am not going to be followed around like?—”
He cuts me off by sliding his hand over my nape, tightening it for a moment before his thumb nudges my face up to his. And then he’s kissing me.
