"Everyone's dirty, Yuri. We just need to find the right stain."
I hang up and pour another vodka.
Why would she agree?
I set the glass down hard enough to crack the base. The question keeps circling, a vulture over carrion.
James Rogers.
I remember him from the gala. The way he cornered Vittoria near the champagne table, his hand wrapped around her upper arm like he owned her. She'd pulled back. Said no.
That was the night I kissed her hand. The night she fled from me like I was the dangerous one.
But Rogers? Rogers she'll meet for dinner?
Something doesn't fit.
Unless she's buying time.
She agreed because refusing would mean losing control entirely. Her family would choose for her. At least this way, she gets to pretend she has options.
She thinks she has options.
There's no way she would agree to marry Rogers. Not willingly.
Of course, there's also no way she would agree to marry me.
I know this.
Irrelevant. She will marry me eventually. She just doesn't know it yet.
Right?
The doubt tastes like ash.
My phone sits on the desk. I stare at it, weighing options I've never considered before.
Dmitri Baganov doesn't chase women. Women come to me, drawn by power and money and the danger they think they understand. I've never had to pursue. Never had to prove anything.
Vittoria makes me want to prove everything.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm grabbing the phone. Her number has been in it for months.
I've never used it.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
This is stupid. Reckless. The kind of impulsive decision my father would beat out of me if he still had the strength.
I type anyway.
Marchetti's serves overcooked pasta and watered-down wine. You deserve better.
I hit send before I can delete it.
The message sits there, delivered, mocking me.
Three dots appear.
