"That's asking a lot."
"You wanted to be partners. Partners don't look like they're being held hostage."
"You've made it clear we aren't partners," she sneers, but she adjusts her expression slightly. Not a real smile, but close enough. Society Gemma has entered the building, thank fucking God. Because everyone is watching us. The newly married Marinis. The alliance everyone's been watching.
A wedding to rival Adrian Nero's quickie.
And for those in the know, a tragic story about a princess and a monster. People eat that shit up.
A waiter offers champagne. Gemma takes one. I don't. I bite my tongue. She won't appreciate me dictating her alcohol consumption, and I can't afford a scene. Not here. Not with Adrian watching.
"Mr. Marini!" A man in a tuxedo approaches. Gerald something. Finance guy. Legitimate money, but he does business with families like ours. They all do. To people likethis, money is money, doesn't matter if it's dirty or clean. "Congratulations on your marriage."
"Thank you."
"And this must be your lovely wife." He turns to Gemma with a smile that's too wide. Too interested.
"Gemma Marini," she says, extending her hand. "It's a pleasure."
"The pleasure is mine. I knew your mother, actually. Bianca was an extraordinary woman."
Something shifts in Gemma's expression. Grief, maybe, but she hides it quickly. "She was. Did you attend many of her exhibitions? She did love a show."
I hid a snort at the double entendre and instead watch Gemma take control. She handles Gerald incredibly, laughing at his stupid ass jokes, touching his arm slightly, asking questions about his work.
This is what she's good at. The social performance. Making people feel seen.
It's everything I'm not, and as much as it pains me, I can see why Antonio was desperate to bring her into the family. She's good. I'll give her that.
"Your wife is charming," Gerald says when Gemma excuses herself to the restroom. "You're a lucky man."
"I know."
The lie comes easily.
The night continues like that. People approaching, Gemma handling them with practiced ease. She knows when to laugh, when to touch someone's arm, when to look fascinated by boring stories about real estate investments.
She's also a pro at mining information, as I stand beside her, letting her work, I learn a great deal about the men who don't realize they are being taken in by a pretty face.
We fall into a rhythm. Someone approaches, she engages, I nod and look intimidating. Tag-team. She smooths the social interaction; I remind them who they're dealing with.
It's...effective.
I've already scheduled two meetings with private equity guys who I'm pretty sure I can blackmail into giving me a pipeline of funds to expand our operations.
It's incredible, and I'm not above admitting it.
"You're good at this," I tell her during a lull.
She glances at me, surprised by the compliment. "At what?"
"This." I gesture vaguely at the room. "Making people comfortable. Making them like you. Gathering intel."
"It's what I was trained for." There's bitterness in her voice. "Bianca made sure I knew how to be decorative in the most efficient ways." She bats her eyes. "She was big on the power of a pretty face."
Before I can respond, I see him.
Adrian Nero. Across the room with his wife.
