But as much as it pains me to admit it, without his steady presence and his hand resting on my lower back, I feel vulnerable.
I know Kane would step in if he thought I was in danger, but being among these stuck-up people is like death by a thousand paper cuts. Each sneer, every derisory glance and, in the case of all the men present, lecherous looks, makes me want to run away as fast as my legs will carry me.
If it weren’t for the vicious dogs roaming free, I’d take my chances.
A server approaches with a silver tray of champagne flutes, so I swipe two, pretending one is for Angelo. It’s an expensive brand that slides down my throat without making me cough.
I drink the first glass in less than five minutes while doing my best to avoid looking up at the ceiling. The second glass goes down more slowly as I hover by a bookcase full of classics. Judging by the pristine spines, they’re only there for show, which doesn’t surprise me.
Just as I’m about to go searching for a bathroom to alleviate my boredom, the door from the hallway swings open and Fina sashays in, as glamorous as ever. Carefully applied makeup hides the bags under her eyes, and the wrap she wears over her navy blue silk dress gently disguises her belly. Not that she’s showing yet.
She spots me and hustles over, ignoring the people who try to catch her attention.
“Where’s Angelo?”
“Your father wanted to talk to him the moment we arrived.”
She’s about to say something when a large, barrel-chested man in a charcoal suit strides over. Fina takes one look at him, and what little color she had on arrival drains from her cheeks.
An older couple cross the man’s path and attempt to engage him in conversation, thwarting his progress. He clenches his teeth but nods politely when the husband asks him a question. I note how his gaze stays fixed on Fina the whole time. It’s honestly kind of creepy.
“Who’s the douche?”
She shudders as he slides a feral grin in her direction while licking his lips.
“Domenico Santini, my husband-to-be.”
It doesn’t take long to see that Domenico Santini has at least two personality disorders. It could be the way he continues to lick his lips while leering at Fina, or perhaps it’s his deranged laugh when I not-so-politely tell him to fuck off after he tries to push between us.
Kane tenses like he wants to rip the man’s head off, but I shake my head in his direction. This is Lorenzo’s home, and I am Angelo’s wife. The man would have to be insane to try anything in front of so many people.
He’s a bully and used to getting his own way.
I’ve dealt with men like him before. Frat boys who think the women serving their drinks want to listen to their disgusting, misogynistic banter, or entitled assholes who think any woman agreeing to a date is saying yes to sex.
Two glasses of champagne in quick succession have erased my social decorum. Not that I ever had much to begin with.
“Serafina will soon be my wife,” he tells me with a look that promises death if I dare get in his way again.
“Perhaps, but currently she’s single and not in the mood to mingle, so back off, meathead.”
“There is no perhaps about it,” he sneers. “The contract has been signed.”
I laugh loudly enough to attract the attention of several people standing nearby. Santini opens his fat mouth to fire more bullshit at me, but I cut him off at the knees.
“I feel sorry for you that you have to buy a bride. It’s a bit like the sad dudes who go to countries like Thailand and pick up a woman willing to overlook their significant defects in return for financial security. What do they call them?Oh yes. Losers Back Home.”
Santini turns a worrying shade of red like he might explode. Messy.
“Are you a loser with women, Domenico?” I tut. “You’re definitely giving off a loser vibe, jackass.”
Just as I’m about to expand on the many reasons why Domenico Santini is a pathetic specimen of a male, a familiar arm snakes around my waist and the scent of bergamot and pepper fills my nose.
“Santini,” Angelo says smoothly. “Are you well?”
From the rage burning in Santini’s eyes, he’s not well at all. In fact, if I were a betting woman, I’d say he's two seconds away from a coronary event. But instead of asking if there’s a defibrillator nearby, I smile serenely.
“Mr. Santini and I were just getting to know each other, darling,” I say before swiping a third glass of champagne from a passing server. Dammit, this shit is good. I might have to steal a bottle for the drive home.
