“Stop calling me that.”
“Why? It’s so fitting after all, even more so today than five years ago.”
“You need therapy.”
Lorenzo flashes me a grin edged in ice. “I am therapy.”
His friend lets out a bellow of a laugh. “You’re something, that’s for sure.”
“Who are you?” I scoff. “A name would be nice.”
“Oh, this is Rafe . . . but you don’t need to concern yourself with him. He’s here to make sure you all stay in line.”
A.k.a. he’s a crazier motherfucker than Lorenzo . . .
My father dabs at his mouth with a napkin, trying to steer the conversation back to something he understands. “Our reputations have taken a hit with all the . . . recent events. Maybe we should announce the marriage.”
“No,” Lorenzo replies, resting his knife on the edge of his plate. “We will do no such thing. If you want to keep your house and not lose everything, you will obey my rules.”
My mother’s fingers tremble against her wineglass. “We will. We’re grateful for your help, Lorenzo.”
His head tips slightly. “You should be. I don’t usually save the people I dismantle.”
Her face goes pale.
I slice into my own steak just to have something to do with my hands. “And what do you get out of this, aside from new toys to break?”
He smiles slowly. “I get you.”
The words land like a slap.
Heat floods my cheeks, equal parts anger and something I don’t want to name.
“You can’t own a person,” I hiss, setting my fork down a little too hard.
He lifts his glass, eyes dark. “That’s adorable. Wrong but adorable.”
Rafe’s gaze flicks between us, measuring the distance and most likely the danger of me stabbing his friend with a knife. “Maybe we steer away from the ‘owning people’ part of the discussion while we’re all armed with cutlery.”
“What will you do to stabilize the public opinion of my company?” Always business with my father.
“A few puff pieces.” Lorenzo rests his chin on his knuckles. “Don’t worry, I’ll make you look like a saint so fast your head will spin. Profits will be back to normal in no time.”
My fork nearly snaps in my hand.
My mother gives me a warning look. “Victoria . . .”
I force a smile that feels like it might shatter my face. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t be a problem. Even if I hate him, and you basically sold me off like cattle . . .”
Lorenzo’s eyes flash with something sharp and fleeting. “Careful, Victoria. You might hurt my feelings.”
“You don’t have feelings,” I whisper.
He leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping low. “No. I had them. Once. I donated them to a cause.”
My throat tightens. “Which cause?”
He smiles, small and vicious. “You.”
