My throat tightens.
Is it?
I think about the three months I demanded. The control I thought I had. The careful evaluation I planned to conduct, weighing pros and cons like Dmitri was a business decision.
That's gone now. Shattered the moment he announced our engagement in front of witnesses.
The decision is made. No more dinners with James Rogers. No more candidates. No more my mother's disappointed sighs or Bruno's bitter comments or the constant parade of men who see me as a stepping stone to power.
Just Dmitri.
"Yes." The word comes out steadier than I expect. "This is what I want."
Pietro's head snaps toward me. "You're sure." It's not a question. It's a demand.
I meet my brother's eyes. "I'm sure."
For a long moment, nobody moves.
Then Pietro exhales. A slow, controlled breath that seems to drain some of the tension from his shoulders. Not all of it. Not even most of it. But enough.
"Fine." The word comes out clipped. Hard. "You want to marry my sister, Baganov? Then we do this properly. Contracts. Negotiations. Nothing happens without my approval."
Dmitri's lips curve into something that's almost a smile. "I would expect nothing less."
"Get out of my house." Pietro's voice is flat. "We'll discuss terms tomorrow."
Dmitri doesn't argue. He turns toward the door, pausing only when he reaches me. His hand brushes mine—just a touch, barely there—and his pale eyes find mine in the dim light.
"Spokoynoi nochi, solnyshko." The Russian words roll off his tongue like silk. "Good night, little sun."
Then he's gone, Nico stepping aside to let him pass.
The door closes.
Pietro's gaze lands on me with the weight of a guillotine blade.
"You have a lot of explaining to do."
Pietro sits behind his desk, jaw tight. Nico leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching me with that stare that makes me feel like he's already dissected every decision I've made in the last month. Bruno's wheelchair is positioned near the window, his expression a mask of cold fury. Dante stands by the door like a statue carved from granite. And Mamma perches on the edge of the settee, her hands folded in her lap, disappointment radiating from every pore.
One big happy family.
"Let me understand this correctly," Pietro says, his voice dangerously calm. "You agreed to marry Dmitri Baganov. Then you went to dinner with James Rogers. And at no point did you think tomentionany of this to me?"
I meet his gaze. "You want an answer? Fine. I didn't think I had a choice."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means exactly what it sounds like, Pietro." I lean forward, my palms pressing into my thighs. "You all sat me down at breakfast and told me I was getting married. Notasked. Told. Like I was a piece of property being shuffled between buyers."
Mamma makes a sound of protest. "Vittoria, that's not?—"
"Isn't it?" I cut her off, and immediately regret the sharpness in my voice. But I'm past the point of polite deflection. "I was given two names and told to pick. So yes, I met with both of them. I evaluated my options. Like a good little Sartori princess."
Silence.
Pietro exhales through his nose. "And Baganov? When didthatbecome an engagement?"
