Then he brushes his lips against the inside of my wrist.
It’s not quite a kiss.
Something quieter.More dangerous.A promise wrapped around a warning.And before I can stop it, heat floods through me.
“When people look at you, they’ll know exactly whose wife you are.”
I bring my head up as his words hit me.Like a challenge.A Moretti claiming territory in a language every family in our world understands.
Russo.
Moretti.
Two names that have spent decades circling each other like wolves.
And he wants me to be the bridge between them.
I yank my hand back.“I belong to no one.”
His slow smile is pure predator.
Then he stands.
The jeweler straightens instantly with a small smile.
“We’ll take it,” Moretti says.
And just like that—my future sits on my finger like a platinum trap.
He has the jeweler provide us with a wedding band that matches.But he refuses one of his own.I’m slightly surprised.
He wears cufflinks and a signet ring.So I expected him to agree to a marital one.
But then again, maybe it’s about the power he exerts over me more than anything else.
I start to remove the stone, but he clamps his hand on mine, just hard enough to hurt.“It stays.”
I yank my hand back.
But after the transaction is complete, we emerge into the heat and humidity.
The ring blazes to life beneath the sun.
I’ve had so many friends proudly show off their rings.This is equally as spectacular as anything I’ve ever seen, but it leaves me cold.
Within seconds, I’m back inside the vehicle with its perfectly chilled air swirling around.
Once again, I have no idea where we’re going, and the drive passes in charged silence.
By the time we pull up to the private entrance of Le Jardin, an exclusive French bistro tucked behind ivy-covered walls in the Galleria, I’m a knot of fury and unwanted hunger, emotions twisting so tight I can barely breathe.
Moretti insists on helping me from the car, his fingers lingering on mine longer than necessary, thumb brushing my knuckles in a slow, deliberate stroke that makes my breath catch.
Inside, the maître d’ greets him by name, voice warm with recognition.“Mr.Moretti, your usual private room is ready.And congratulations are in order, I hear.”The man’s smile includes me, polite, deferential, as if this is normal, as if I’m not the kidnapped Russo princess wearing a dress selected by my captor.
Dante’s hand stays at my back as we’re led through the hushed dining room, past tables where Houston’s elite murmur over crystal and linen.
The private salon is all cream silk walls and late morning light filtering through sheer curtains.There’s a single round table set with roses and heavy silver.
