“Traditions that survive scrutiny tend to be worth keeping,” I add. “The rest eventually change.”
Salvatore’s smile tightens.
And I know I’ve said exactly enough when Giovanni stiffens beneath me, his fingers digging into my waist in warning.
A few people shift in their seats. One man clears his throat. Isabella’s eyes flick to Giovanni, then back to me, measuring, recalculating.
When I turn to my husband, his eyes are on Bellandi, his expression carefully neutral. But in the next instant, they shift to me and I catch pride in his eyes.
Not the performative kind, not the careful mask he wears in public, but something warmer and far more dangerous, his gaze steady and approving as if I’ve just proven a theory he’s been nursing for a while.
And then I feel it.
His arousal, unmistakable and deliberate, a quiet warning and a promise braided together, as if my defiance has struck some private chord he doesn’t bother hiding. And as I’m grappling with this new, sizzling revelation, he rolls his hips subtly, imprinting his cock against my arse.
Heat blazes through me, pooling heavy and urgent between my thighs.
“You,” I murmur under my breath, shocked despite myself, “are a monster.”
He leans in, his voice rough and intimate against my ear. “Indeed. So don’t be surprised when you poke me and get the horns.”
The thrill that sparks inside me is treacherous and bright, a reminder that danger and desire have always shared a border with him.
The drawing room thins by degrees, conversations tapering into careful goodbyes and lingering glances that carry more calculation than courtesy.
Salvatore Bellandi does not rush to leave, much to my regret.
Hell, he’s one of the last ones to rise, smoothing the front of his jacket with unhurried precision, the gesture deliberate enough to draw the eye.
His gaze drifts to Giovanni first, then to me, pausing there just long enough to register as judgement rather than interest.
“This was… illuminating,” Salvatore says mildly. “Though I confess, I expected a different evening.”
Giovanni doesn’t move. “Did you?”
Salvatore’s mouth curves. “Sì. I thought you understood that when business requires clarity, certain… distractions are spared the room. Some women understand when to step away.”
The word some lands like a blade.
My spine stiffens. I open my mouth.
Giovanni’s hand tightens at my back.
“This… rigidity,” Giovanni replies evenly, “is exactly why some men struggle to keep pace.”
A flicker crosses Salvatore’s eyes. Annoyance, quickly banked. “You mistake endurance for progress,” he says. “The old ways exist for a reason. Structure. Order. My daughter, for instance, understands her place.”
Isabella, who’d drifted into the room with hips swaying as if they were under the influence of a hypnotist, lifts her chin slightly at that, her gaze sliding towards me with practised serenity, as though the blatant insult were beneath the dignity of a response.
“I know where my wife’s place is,” Giovanni says calmly as he rises, keeping me clamped against him. “Beside me.”
The temperature in the room drops.
Salvatore buttons his jacket. “A bold position. One that invites commentary.”
“Let them comment,” Giovanni replies. “I don’t govern by consensus.”
Isabella steps forward then, her smile polite and brittle. “I hope you’ll forgive us if we find this… arrangement unconventional.”
