If looks could kill, I’m deceased already. Angelo takes one look at Kane and me and clenches his jaw so hard I worry he might suffer a cardiac event. Kane smirks and falls back a few feet, resting nonchalantly against a stone pillar as our fellow guests give him a wide berth.
The man has a top-tier resting bitch face. Even better than mine, which is saying something. He also gives off astrongI-will-murder-you-if-you-look-at-me-wrongvibe.
I paste an innocent expression on my face and pretend I have no clue why Kane’s smirking like the cat that ate all the cream.
When the auction begins, Angelo takes my hand and squeezes it so tight I swear he breaks a bone or three. But we’resurrounded by people with finely tuned antennae for gossip, so there’s nothing he can say or do without attracting attention.
An hour later, and I’ve slipped into a boredom coma; it’s a wonder someone hasn’t called 911. When Angelo catches me yawning wider than the Grand Canyon, he sighs and motions Kane over.
“Call the driver.” Kane nods and mutters something into his comms device.
“I’ll use the bathroom before we go.”
Angelo makes a move to follow me, but I roll my eyes. “The bathroom is right there,” I say, gesturing at the gleaming gold door less that ten feet away. “I’ll be quick.”
“And I’ll be waiting,” he grumbles.
As much as his overbearing paranoia irritates me, I can’t help but find it comforting. I like that he’s watching out for me, even though he’s angry.
Everything about my relationship with Angelo confuses me. I should hate him, but after Scotland, my feelings have changed. Yes, I still hate that he forced me into a marriage I don’t want, but it’s not black and white.
He didn’t want this marriage any more than I did, and yet here we are. Both of us are too stubborn to back down. It’s become a matter of pride.
I refuse to be the wife he wants, while he refuses to let me go.
Not even the fact that I’m sleeping with his brother and his best friend has changed his mind. I’d have thought by now he would have taken a mistress, but to the best of my knowledge, there are no other women in his life.
I’m not sure how I’d feel if hewerefucking other women, which makes no sense whatsoever.
When I step back out of the cubicle to wash my hands, my dear stepmother is in front of a mirror touching up her makeup.
Diamonds sparkle around her slim neck, drawing attention to her enhanced cleavage. Since marrying for the third time—or is it the fourth?—Vivian has had some work done. I’ll admit, she looks good. The caramel highlights in her perfectly coiffed hair appear natural, and her figure is slender with no hint of midlife weight gain. If not for the slight tightness around her eyes, I’d put her in her mid-thirties.
But she doesn’t deserve my compliments.
I ignore her as I wash my hands, but her hypercritical gaze crawls over my face and body, checking for perceived flaws.
“You’ve gained weight,” she tells me with a sneer.
“And?” I no longer care what she thinks.
“Be careful, Chiara, or your husband will stray.”
I snort, unable to contain my amusement. She has no fucking clue. As she sniffs and turns away to check her teeth for lipstick, a card wedged in her open clutch catches my eye.
The paper is thick and creamy. Expensive. The embossed gold heraldic design triggers a memory. I’ve seen it before. But where?
Before I can examine it further, Vivian sees me staring and snatches her clutch back.
Her gaze drops to my stomach and lingers.
“You should be pregnant by now, Chiara. Lorenzo knows you’re fertile, so what’s taking so long?”
The alcohol in my blood temporarily shuts down my inhibitions. Sober Chiara would walk away, but drunk Chiara is in no mood to put up with her bullshit. So I do what I should have done a long time ago. I slap her across the face. Hard enough to leave a red handprint.
She wails.Jesus. Anyone would think I had just stabbed her.
The door bursts open, and Angelo charges in, gun in hand. He takes in the scene and relaxes.
