“Time is ticking, Valentina.”He doesn’t move to help me, nor does he pull away.He simply stands there, a mafia underboss watching me realize that I have no cards left to play in this room.
“I hate you,” I whisper, the words tasting like copper and spent adrenaline.
“I’m aware.”With his thumb, he grazes the line of my jaw, a touch so fleeting it might have been a hallucination if not for the trail of fire it leaves behind.“But you’ll still be ready when I say.Unless you want the consequences.”
His eyes gleam then, as if he’s hoping I’ll make that choice.
And part of me is tempted.
What a weird, fucked-up dynamic there is between us.
I’ve spent my life around powerful, arrogant men with no reaction to them.But Dante Moretti…?
What is it about him?
Battling my fury, I spin away from him, retreating toward the walk-in closet where the garment bags he’d sent are waiting like silk-lined cages.
I close the door, giving myself some privacy.
Or rather, the illusion of it.
The man has already undressed me once.And I’m sure that he’s not going to allow his wife her own, separate room.
Unless I can figure a way out of this madness, this is my future.
Blinking away my frustration, I remind myself I’m a Russo.A strategist who has navigated blood-soaked boardrooms and stared down men twice Moretti’s age without blinking.But as I reach for the first garment bag, my fingers are shaking.
It isn’t just from fear.It’s the way my pulse still hammers against my ribs, reacting to a man who represents the destruction of everything I love.
I unzip the bag.Inside is a dress the color of a bruised plum—dark, elegant, and dangerously expensive.It’s a Moretti statement.A brand.
How has he managed this?To find something that I like, in my size, and at this time of the morning?
That he’s so resourceful makes me hate him a little more.
Aware of the time ticking and the fact the bastard will walk in on me if I’m one second late, I strip off the robe.
The chilled air hits my bare skin like a splash of ice water.
I slip into the provided undergarments, somewhat surprised that he’s allowed me any to begin with.
Then I pull the silk dress over my head.
The material flows into places.
In the mirror, I have a critical look.But the gown is perfect, the dress hugging my curves without being overly tight.
He didn’t just kidnap me; he’s catalogued every detail about me.
I step into the chunky heels he provided.
Before opening the door, I pull back my shoulders and intentionally make my features blank.I’m a Mafia princess, and I’m not going to let him, or anyone else, see my inner turmoil.
When I exit the closet exactly three minutes later, Dante is leaning against the opposite wall, his phone in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket.
He looks up, and for a split second, the predator’s mask slips.His eyes darken as he sweeps his gaze over the dress, the heels.
His approval unsettles me more than his bossiness.
