I look at the wardrobe.
The burgundy dress hangs exactly where it always hangs.
"I hate him," I tell my reflection.
My reflection offers nothing useful in return.
I take one more breath, hold it, release it slowly.
Then I put the burgundy dress on.
CHAPTER NINE
RAFAEL
When she walked into that gathering tonight, every man in the room recalibrated.
I watched it happen. The subtle straightening of spines, the conversations that paused half a beat too long, the eyes that moved to her and stayed.
I've been bringing women to these functions for fifteen years and none of them produced that effect, that specific quality of attention that means a room has decided someone is worth watching.
I've been watching her all evening too, and I need to stop.
The gathering is at Conti's estate, forty minutes east, old money and older allegiances and the kind of room where every handshake is a transaction and every smile is a calculation. Iknow every face, every angle, every man who smiles with his lips and means something else entirely with his eyes.
Tonight, I'm watching Gia instead.
She's in the deep burgundy dress, long-sleeved, high-necked, fitted through the body and falling straight to the floor, the kind of dress that covers everything and somehow makes that worse.
She moves through the room with her chin up and her expression composed, her eyes tracking the room in slow deliberate sweeps, noting who stands closest to Conti, who waits to be approached rather than approaching, who checks the door when a new face enters. She's mapping it.
Ferretti approaches me first, as he always does. He’s been clawing at the edges of the Brotherhood for two years, trying to find a soft spot in our operations to sink his teeth into. Tonight, he smells an opportunity in the alliance.
"A masterstroke, Rafael," Ferretti says, stepping into my personal space with a smile that’s too wide and teeth that are too white. He offers a hand.
I take it, my grip just tight enough to remind him of the hierarchy. "Ferretti."
"The De Luca girl," he continues, his eyes wandering toward the bar. "A bit spirited for a bride, isn't she? I heard she gave Salvatore quite the performance in the chapel."
"She’s a De Luca," I say, my voice flat, a warning he’s too ambitious to heed. "They aren't known for being quiet."
"True. But she’s a Caruso now." He chuckles, a greasy sound that grates against my nerves. "I imagine you’ll have her silenced by morning. A woman like that... she needs a firm hand to remind her where the power lies."
I stop listening to his words. I watch Gia across the room. She accepts a glass of wine from a passing waiter, her fingers closing around the stem with a delicate, bone-deep elegance. She’s smart. Dangerously smart. She’s letting every man in this room think she’s decoration while she maps the exits.
I notice.
I think about those fingers. I think about her waist under that silk, how it would feel trapped under my hands. I want to find out if her skin is as soft as it looks, or if she’s made of the same steel as her words.
I want to press my thumb to the blue vein on the inside of her wrist and feel her pulse jump. I want to work my way up from there, past the lace, past the poise. I want to get my fist in that dark hair, pull her head back until she’s forced to look at me, and find out exactly what sound she makes when she breaks. I want to know if her mouth would taste like the wine she’s sipping or the curses she’s holding back.
Ferretti says something.
"Mm," I say.
Get your fucking head on straight.
"Rafael? Are you listening?" Ferretti’s voice breaks through the haze.
