“My life,” she says simply. “My inheritance. A life where I make my own choices, eventually, once the family debt is paid.” Something dark passes across her face. “Do you know what it takes to keep a woman like me a virgin for this many years? The guards. The restrictions. Years of being locked down, managed, controlled. I had no intention of being used as a bargaining chip. But marriage to you is a known quantity. A way out.”
I study her: 32 years old, beautiful, calculating, trapped. I’vespent enough time with trapped things to recognize the look.
“Life with me is no picnic,” I say. “Ask any woman I’ve ever been with.”
“I’m aware.” She says it without blinking. “I don’t expect faithfulness from you. I hope you don’t expect it from me.”
She says it carefully, like she’s testing me. I shrug. “I could give a fuck who you spread your legs for, now or later.”
She looks relieved.
“Your woman,” she says. “What’s her name?”
I stare her down until she glances away.
“I have a man,” she says, after a moment. “He wants me, but he’d never cross my brothers. I thought, maybe, if you had your woman and I had him, it might be an arrangement that worked. For both of us.”
I hear her. A fake marriage holds the alliance, the family business continues, and behind closed doors we each live our actual lives. It should feel like a solution.
But it’s not a solution that allows me to fuck Sophie awake every morning, put babies inside her, watch her glow when I eat her food, and stare at her beautiful fat ass.
I scrub a hand over my face and stare at the ceiling.
“If we don’t do this tonight, they’ll start asking questions,” Ashlyn says quietly. She meets my eyes. “You don’t have areputation for saying no to beautiful women, Vin. People will notice.”
No woman is more beautiful than Sophie Bellamorte, and I said no to her over and over again. I said no to the most best fucking thing I’ve ever had in my life. But I did it for my family, for duty. Do I have to say yes to Ashlyn for the same reason?
I don’t move when Ashlyn steps out of her skirt and comes to me. I don’t stop her when she straddles my lap.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
3
SOPHIE
The burrata needs another 10 minutes.
I leave it alone and move to the stove, where the ragù has been simmering since this morning, with a smell so layered it’s practically a physical thing in the Arsenal.
For the past three weeks, I’ve been cooking, testing, adjusting. Running through every dish on the opening menu until I could make it blindfolded. Opening night feels like it’s minutes away, but I’m ready.
Siena sits at the bar with Emilia in her lap, watching me as I move between the stove and the prep station.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say without turning around.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“You’re plotting.”
“Plotting what?”
“Plotting how you’ll get me to come to New Year’s Eve.”
Emilia blows a raspberry in my direction. I point my wooden spoon at her. “Thank you. Finally, someone on my side.”
Siena shifts the baby on her hip and reaches for her espresso with her free hand. “I’m always on your side. That’s why I’m here: to eat your food and tell you how amazing you are.”
“Well, then get ready.” I lift the lid on the ragù and prepare to serve.
