But I’d rather have her here, at my side, than left alone to be gawked at like some exhibit on display. And I don’t even fucking know why. It’s not like I feel anything for her—well, other than the constant feeling of irritation.
Salvatore grunts. “When I was young, a mayor knew who buttered his bread. Now? Now they spit on the hand that feeds them.”
“Maybe that’s because you all still think like men from the last century,” Isabella says softly.
Marco’s bushy brows shoot up. Salvatore freezes mid-drag on his cigar. Even Valerie tilts her head, smiling like she just found a new toy.
And my stomach coils with dangerous heat. My beautiful, reckless little mutineer just threw herself into the fire. Every instinct I have screams to drag her under the table and remind her who runs her mouth, and who shuts it.
She doesn’t stop there though. “You talk about elections like it’s still the fifties. Bribes and favors don’t move people anymore. Headlines do. Stories. Social media. The opposition doesn’t havemore money than you; he has attention. And that’s what wins in today’s world.”
Her nails tap lightly against the stem of her glass. “If you want your candidate to take City Hall, you don’t need more envelopes stuffed with cash. You need cameras pointed in the right direction.”
Once again, I squeeze Isabella’s thigh under the table, hard enough to make her breath hitch. Her eyes widen as the realization dawns on her.
She places her glass down carefully. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”
I track her retreat, my pulse hammering with equal parts fury and something I don’t care to acknowledge because the reckless little thing isn’t wrong.
The second she’s gone, Marco lets out a low whistle. “Sharp tongue on that one. Lucky man, Dominic.” His gaze moves toward the doorway through which she disappeared. “I wouldn’t mind—”
The rest of his sentence dies when my hand drifts toward my jacket. “I dare you to finish that statement.”
Valerie chuckles under her breath. “I like her,” she drawls, eyes glinting mischievously. “Who would’ve thought? The infamous Dominic Moretti, tethered to a woman who doesn’t tremble at his shadow. I expected something…docile.”
I can tell she’s baiting me for a reaction. I stand slowly, and every eye follows me as I adjust my jacket. “We’re done here.” I turn, ready to hunt down Isabella before her mouth earns her a punishment she won’t walk straight from, when a too-familiar voice halts me.
“Dominic, it’s good to see you.”
Dean comes into view, waddling out from the crowd, his suit straining at the buttons as if even the fabric is offended to be touching him. The chandelier light above catches the sheen of sweat on his bald head. I stare at him a moment, wondering—as I always do—if this pathetic, wheezing man really spawned Isabella. There’s not a trace of her in him. No fire, no defiance. She must take after her mother.
“It’s Mr. Moretti to you,” I say, voice clipped.
He startles, then forces a chuckle that dies too quickly. “Ah, yes. My apologies, Mr. Moretti.”
I let my gaze drag over him until his shoulders twitch under the weight of it. He’s the kind of man who smiles to your face and stabs you in the back. I dislike him—no, I despise him. A man willing to trade his own daughter to climb a rung higher in this city doesn’t deserve the title of father.
“I was wondering if we could have dinner together. Now that we’re family—”
Family. The sound of that disgusts me.
“How did you get an invitation?” I ask instead. It’s an invite-only event and I know every name on the guest list. I already know the answer. Men like Dean always find ways to crawl into rooms they don’t belong in.
He dabs his forehead with a handkerchief. “Friends in the right places.”
I almost laugh.Friends. Parasites like him don’t have friends, only hosts.
“This isn’t a room for men who borrow power.”
Dean’s throat bobs like he’s choking on my words. His eyes dart toward the doorway through which Isabella vanished. He’s still trying to use her as his bargaining chip, even now that she’s mine.
My jaw clenches. “Forget her,” I whisper, so soft only he can hear. “She’s no longer yours to use.”
Dean forces another weak smile. I leave him standing there, exactly where he belongs, on the outside, begging for scraps.
I step onto the balcony, momentarily mesmerized by the sight of Isabella. She looks so at peace, staring up at the full moon, her ginger hair spilling in loose waves down one side of her shoulders.
Opposite her, a man moves closer. He laughs at something she says, and the sound scrapes across my nerves.
