Angelo glances down and spots the way Santini’s fists are clenched. He shifts me out of the way and fixes the man with a hard stare. Santini is at least four inches shorter than my husband, which means the odious man has to crane his neck to talk to him. He catches me smirking, and his face turns purple.
“I hope you haven’t upset my wife,” Angelo remarks in a conversational tone. “I don’t like it when people upset my wife.”
From the way Santini chokes on his saliva, he’s desperate to bite back, but Kane’s hand brushes my shoulder, reassuring me he’s ready if the idiot starts anything.
Santini’s a thug, but he’s not stupid. No sane man would pick a fight with these two.
Fina has taken advantage of the distraction and slunk away. I spot her out of the corner of my eye. Matteo leads her out of the room, away from the other guests, all of whom are enjoying the show.
The music goes silent a few seconds later and then a bell rings from the far end of the room.
“Dinner is served,” the haughty butler announces. “Please make your way to the dining room.”
The announcement gives Santini the excuse he needs to back off without losing face. But, like all psychopaths, he has to have the last word.
“I look forward to breaking in my new wife,” he snarls with one last venomous glare at me. Then he turns and storms off, not caring that he nearly knocks a poor server flying when she veers into his path.
I stare after him while trying not to vomit at the thought of Fina marrying that psycho. For all Angelo’s faults, he’s an angel compared to Domenico Santini.
“We can’t let Fina marry that man,” I tell my husband.
Angelo gives me a terse nod. “I know.”
32
Angelo
Ishould have known Chiara would cause trouble the minute I left her alone. She just can’t help herself. Her eyes sparkle with barely contained feminine rage as I drag her into the dining room, where my father holds court with Tim Remington and his cronies.
Our conversation in his study simmers in my brain. Santini wants to bring the wedding forward to this weekend. He’s desperately in love, apparently, which of course is utter bullshit.
My father has told him he’d let him know by the end of the night.
Fina has disappeared with Matteo. Hopefully she’s not left already, although I’d have heard if she had. As much as I understand why she would want to get the fuck out of here, we can’t afford to antagonize our father this evening. He’s made it abundantly clear he wants this deal with Santini to go ahead without a hitch, and if he feels it’s under threat, he might insist Fina stays here, so he can lock her in her room until the wedding.
There are small cream cards on the long rectangular table crafted from solid oak, each one hand-written in a delicate goldcursive script. When I discover my father has placed Chiara on his left, with me halfway down the table between Francesca and Vivian Remington, I want to throttle him.
I know he’s frustrated Chiara isn’t pregnant yet. He thinks I should getrid of her, in his words. Patience isn’t his strong suit, and he’s desperate for a male heir to continue our genetic line.
Even though I pointed out Luka could have a kid, Luka doesn’t count, apparently. He’s my father’s son, but Dad refuses to accept Luka in any meaningful way. I wish I knew why, but talking to my father about Luka is like beating my head against a wall.
“Oh goody,” Chiara mutters when she sees who she’s sitting next to. “Is it too late to develop a life-limiting illness?”
As much as I’d like to toss the place cards into the fireplace, Dad will lose his shit if I do. So we carry on walking so see where Fina’s sitting. Unsurprisingly, she’s close to Dad with Santini on her right and Remington on her left.
I debate swapping out Vivian’s card with Fina’s name card, but my father appears, laughing with one of his sycophants, and the opportunity passes.
The servers arrive shortly after, and we’re all ushered to our seats. Chiara throws me one last scowl as she takes her seat. Kane’s watching from the wall, where he’s observing the room along with several of my father’s men. All armed.
“Angelo, how delightful,” Francesca purrs as she slides into her chair wearing an extremely low-cut pink dress. Chiara watches with narrowed eyes as Francesca presses her breasts into my arm and leans in to whisper something in my ear.
Part of me wants to go along with Francesca’s little game because I know it will annoy Chiara, but I’m not in the mood for games tonight. So instead, I shove the bitch back, none too gently, and accidentally on purpose knock over a glass of wine.
The red liquid spills onto her lap, ruining her dress. She screams bloody murder. My father snaps his head in our direction before he throws me a warning glare. A servant is summoned to clean up the mess.
“My dress is ruined,” Francesca cries. “It’s vintage Dior, you know!”
“Really?” Chiara snorts before saying in a too loud voice, “I could have sworn I saw that one on Temu.”
