"Itdid."
Amanda props herself up on her elbows, green eyes glittering with amusement. "And you want me to believe you don't want him? That all of this"—she gestures at me, at the dress, at the nine hours of preparation—"is juststrategy?"
My fingers still on the bracelet clasp.
She's wrong. She has to be wrong.
I don't want Dmitri Baganov. I want to beat him at his own game. I want to walk into that restaurant looking so devastating that he chokes. I want him to realize that manipulating a Sartori comes with consequences.
That's all.
That's all.
"It's strategy," I repeat. Firmer this time.
Amanda rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. "Okay, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night." She sits up, tucking her legs beneath her. "But just so you know? If you decide to throw strategy out the window and justfuckhim instead? That's also a valid option."
"Amanda."
"What? I'm just saying!" She throws her hands up. "He's hot. Like,criminallyhot. Literally. And you've been celibate for two years?—"
"I haven't been?—"
"Your vibrator doesn't count."
My cheeks burn. "I hate you."
"You love me." She grins, utterly unrepentant. "And I love you, which is why I'm telling you that it's okay towant something. Even if that something is a six-foot-whatever Russian with control issues and a stalking habit."
I grab my clutch from the vanity. Black satin. Small enough to hold my phone, my lipstick, and the tiny knife I always carry. "I'm leaving now."
"Have fun!" Amanda calls after me. "Use protection! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
"That leaves the field pretty open," I mutter, stepping into the hallway.
Dante waits at the top of the stairs. His dark eyes find me immediately, and something complicated moves through his expression.
Dante isn't much of a talker. He nods and walks.
I follow him down the stairs.
Outside, the night air hits my bare shoulders. Cool. Crisp. The black SUV idles at the curb, engine purring.
Dante opens the back door for me.
I pause, one hand on the frame.
This is just strategy. Playing his game. Nothing more.
I slide into the darkness of the backseat, and the door closes behind me.
Elio drives. Dante sits in the passenger seat.
Neither of them speaks.
This is normal. Dante Castellani doesn't do conversation. He does silence. He does presence. He does the kind of quiet that makes other men nervous because they can't figure out what he's thinking.
I've known Dante my entire life. He's been part of our family since before I could walk. Lorenzo's shadow. My father's most trusted soldier.
