Because he's right. I came here wanting something. And I showed him exactly how desperate I am to get it.
I lift my chin, gather what's left of my dignity, and walk toward the door.
As I pass him, he speaks quietly.
"For what it's worth? You made a compelling case."
I don't respond. Don't look at him.
I walk down the hallway, take the elevator, get in the car.
Emmanuel doesn't ask questions. Just drives.
The whole ride back, I'm silent. Fuming.
I gambled everything. Got on my knees. Degraded myself.
And he said he'dconsider it.
By the time we reach the compound, my hands are fists in my lap.
I walk straight to my room, slam the door behind me.
And then I stand there, breathing hard, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.
CHAPTER 5
Saint
The dress is emerald green, and the silk flows down her body, somehow hugging every curve while still leaving a lot to the imagination. It's the perfect mix of sexy, feminine, and conservative.
I like that.
I'm not a man who notices women's clothes. Hell, until I'm looking to fuck, I don't usually pay much attention to women.
And yet, my pretty little wife demands my attention. Gemma Nero, now Marini, is not the type of woman one ignores, and her choice of clothing for the evening simply highlights that fact.
She is lovely in that old-money, soft kind of way. Her thick hair and silver eyes give her a sort of innocent look. But there's more to her than just a pretty face. Her silver eyes are molten with anger at me, and her cheeks are flushed with passion.
I'd yelled upstairs for her to hurry up, no doubt pissing her off, and that anger and irritation have added to her beauty.
My wife is stunning. The type of woman that makes men turn their heads.
I appreciate the way that knowledge bolsters me. I have something others covet, and I like it.
"You look acceptable."
Her jaw tightens. "How generous."
I offer my arm. After a moment's hesitation, she takes it and allows me to guide her to the car.
We're silent as Emmanuel drives us to the Plaza. Some endangered species charity gala. The kind of event where criminals and legitimate businessmen pretend that they can't tell each other apart. Where everyone pays fifty grand a table to feel philanthropic while discussing money laundering over champagne.
I fucking hate these things, and I usually don't attend, but Antonio made it clear now that I'm married, I need to step into the public persona.
Which means I need my wife to cooperate.
"Smile," I tell Gemma as we approach the entrance. "Look like you don't want to kill me."
