Or more like stamping his authority and ownership on me.
In full, blatant view of his men.
The kiss is slow and deliberate, his mouth claiming mine with the kind of certainty that leaves no room for debate, no space for dignity, no doubt about where I belong.
The room goes dead silent.
When he finally pulls back, my breath is wrecked, my pulse pounding, my fury tangled in something dangerously close to exhilaration.
I lean in, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “You can’t use kisses to shut me up whenever you don’t like what I’m saying,” I hiss.
He smiles faintly. “So far, it’s been the most effective method.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I mutter darkly. “I could stab you.”
His grin widens, sharp and delighted. “I knew you were bloodthirsty. Very good,dragunidda. But perhaps not before I’ve had the pleasure of being inside you, I would hate to miss that particular milestone.”
Heat slams into my face.
I open my mouth, then close it again, momentarily stunned by my own violent outburst and his infuriating ability to turn it into foreplay.
Giovanni glances at his men. “That will be all.”
They leave without a word, already understanding that this argument is not for them.
Upstairs, the dressing room glows with warm light and quiet expectation.
The gown awaiting me is obscene in its perfection, midnight black silk that clings where it should, drapes where it must, and makes absolutely no concession to modesty or mercy.
Giovanni watches me dress from the doorway, his gaze unfiltered now, dark with possession and something else that coils low and dangerous.
“You look,” he says slowly, “like a woman who has just remembered exactly who she is.”
I swallow. “And who is that?”
“My wife,” he replies simply. “The one everyone is about to be reminded of.”
Twenty minutes later, when we descend the stairs together, the effect is immediate.
Conversation falters. Eyes turn. Attention locks, and another pin drops.
This is not just any overdue dinner party gathering the rich and influential to introduce his new wife to.
This is a power statement.
Giovanni Dragoni reminding everyone in the room who still commands the chessboard they’re playing on, who he protects without apology, and how little patience he has left for men who mistake nostalgia for authority.
I feel it in the way the room subtly rearranges itself around him, in how men straighten and women assess. In the way he introduces me with the unspoken warning that I’m not a guest here, I’m part of the architecture of his power.
I’m too busy reading the room, it doesn’t click that not all the guests are here. Not until the tension rises a very visible notch.
As heads turn towards the entrance to the ballroom designated for tonight’s entertainment.
Salvatore Bellandi enters first, pausing momentarily in the doorway but not meeting anyone’s eyes.
To the casual observer, he’s merely waiting for his companion to arrive next to him, but I know it’s yet another power move by men who apparently believe every waking moment is a challenge to be won.
He deliberately arrived late so he could revel in this moment.
