“Father." The word carries no warmth from Ilona. No recognition of the bond it implies. Just cold acknowledgment of biological fact, delivered with a flatness that would make lesser men flinch.
"Ilona. You look radiant." His pale eyes sweep over her in a way that makes my hand curl into a fist. "Marriage agrees with you, though I confess I'm wounded my only daughter didn't see fit to invite her father to the ceremony." His smile is warm, practiced, the concerned parent performing for an audience. "I had to hear the news from a mutual friend. Imagine my surprise."
The lies drip from his tongue like honey laced with arsenic, sweet on the surface, poison underneath.
He turns those calculating eyes on me and extends his hand. "Mr. Valentina. I don't believe we've been formally introduced, though it seems you've become family while I wasn't looking."
I take it only because refusing would cause a scene that serves his purposes better than mine. His grip is firm, testing, the handshake of a man measuring an opponent. His palm is dry and cool, like touching snake scales.
"I only ask," he continues, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, paternal in a way that makes my skin crawl, "that you allow me to be part of my grandchild's life. In time, of course. When trust has been established. I’m sure you are well aware of the friction Ilona and I have at the moment."
He makes no mention of the friction between us. He knows he's on the Syndicate's radar. And I'm not dumb enough to assume he doesn't.
Ilona's body trembles against my side. Fear or fury, I can't tell which. Perhaps both. Two things can always be true.
"We appreciate your well-wishes." I keep my tone neutral, my expression bland, the mask of diplomacy firmly in place. "I'm sure Ilona will consider your request."
Enzo's smile doesn't waver. He inclines his head again, the picture of paternal grace, and melts back into the crowd like he was never there at all.
The moment he's gone, Ilona releases a breath that shudders through her entire body.
"Champagne." She snags a glass from a passing server and clutches it like a lifeline. "That man could make offering candy to children sound like a threat."
I take the glass from her hand.
"I wasn't going to drink it." She shoots me a look that could cut glass. "I just needed something in my hands so I didn't walk backover there and slap the lies right off his face in front of three hundred people."
The fire in her eyes settles the knot in my chest more than any apology could. There she is. My jungle flower with her thorns out.
"Credit given." I set the glass on a nearby ledge and press my palm against the small of her back, pulling her closer to my side. "Don’t mistake his words for surrender. That was an opening move."
Her eyes meet mine, dark and troubled, reflecting the chandelier light like stars drowning in deep water. "I know all too well. But I just wish it was different. I wish for once he meant what he said. Do you know what it would mean to have my father in our lives? A real grandfather for our baby, I mean.”
She pauses as if to visualize a life where that is true and then sighs heavily. “What do you think all this means for us?"
"It means we stay alert." I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs tracing her cheekbones, feeling the warmth of her skin against my palms. "It means I protect you. Always."
She searches my expression for a long moment, looking for answers I'm not ready to give. Then she nods, accepting my deflection, trusting me with a faith I intend to earn.
"Take me home. We’ve come to do what we needed and now I just want to be done with all this."
Her words land closer to the wish burning in my pocket than she knows.
The drive to Lincoln Park passes in charged silence, the city lights streaming past the tinted windows like falling stars. Herhand rests on my thigh, warm through the fabric of my suit pants, her fingers tracing idle patterns that make concentration impossible. Heat builds with every stroke, every casual touch that she probably doesn't even realize she's making. By the time we reach the mansion, my blood runs hot and my restraint hangs by threads.
She reaches for me the moment the bedroom door closes behind us.
Her mouth finds mine with desperate hunger, her fingers tearing at my jacket, shoving it off my shoulders. It hits the floor with a muffled thump that neither of us acknowledges. Then her hands attack my shirt, fumbling with buttons, yanking fabric free of my waistband. The kiss tastes like desperation and need and something that feels dangerously close to trust.
"Ilona." Her name scrapes from my throat as she shoves my shirt off my shoulders, her palms spreading across my bare chest, nails dragging lightly through the hair dusted across my pectorals. "Slow down. Let me?—"
"I don't want slow." She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her chest heaving beneath the blue silk, her pupils blown so wide her eyes look black in the dim light. "I want you. I've wanted you all week, and I'm tired of waiting, and I need?—"
I silence her with my mouth. I don’t need to hear anything else.
The kiss turns molten, consuming, a conflagration that burns away every rational thought. My tongue sweeps against hers and she moans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest. My fingers find her zipper and drag it down, the metallic whisper loud in the heated silence. The dress pools at her feet ina cascade of sapphire silk, leaving her in nothing but scraps of white lace that make my vision blur.
"Fuck." The curse escapes me before I can stop it. "You're so goddamn beautiful."
