I sit. My hands are folded in my lap, my posture respectful. But inside, I'm still seething.
"Dario Santoro is in the hospital with a broken nose, fractured jaw, and three cracked ribs," Dante says, his voicedangerously calm. "His family is demanding an explanation. And compensation."
"He was disrespectful," I say, keeping my voice even. "He made crude comments about?—"
"I don't care what he said." Dante cuts me off, his eyes hard. "I care that you lost control in front of representatives from three different families. I care that your behavior is becoming a liability."
The words sting, but I don't let it show.
"The other families are watching us," Dante continues. "Looking for weakness, for any sign that we're unstable, that we can't control our own men. And you just gave them exactly what they were looking for."
"I apologize," I say, and I mean it. Not for what I did to Dario—I'd do that again in a heartbeat—but for the position I've put Dante in. "It won't happen again."
"It better not." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "You're one of my best men, Luca. One of the most trusted. But trust only goes so far, as does my son’s affection for you. If you can't control yourself, if you can't put the family's interests above your own feelings, then you're no use to me."
The threat is clear. Get control or face consequences. "I understand," I say as calmly as I can. "It won't happen again."
Dante nods slowly, like he's considering whether to believe me. Then he says something I'm not expecting. "I'm reassigning you. Temporarily."
My stomach drops. "Sir?"
"Romeo can handle his own security for a while. I need you to focus on Giulia." He says it like it's a simple logistical decision, like he has no idea what he's asking. "The wedding is in a few months, and there are a lot of errands to run—dress fittings, venue visits, meetings with vendors. I want someone I trust keeping an eye on her."
No. No, no, no.
This is the last thing I need. The absolute worst possible assignment. But I can't say that. I can't tell him that being near Giulia is torture, that every moment in her presence makes the wanting worse, that I'm barely holding on as it is.
"Of course," I say instead, my heart thudding in my chest. "Whatever you need."
"Good." He stands, signaling that the conversation is over. "Start tomorrow. And Luca? Keep your temper in check. I won't warn you again."
I leave his office feeling like I'm walking toward my own execution.
The first day of the new assignment is a dress fitting. I drive Giulia to an exclusive boutique in Manhattan. She's quiet in the car, staring out the window, and I can feel the tension radiating off her in waves.
I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to do this. That she doesn’t have to marry a man she doesn’t want. But that’s not my place, and it never has been. It never will be.
It doesn’t matter that she's miserable, that she flinches when Alessandro touches her, that she's being forced into a marriage that will slowly kill everything bright and beautiful about her. None of it matters because it’s what’s good for the family.
We arrive at the boutique, and I follow her inside. The staff fusses over her, bringing out dress after dress, each one more elaborate than the last, and I stand there and watch as she comes out in each one and looks at herself in the mirror with dead eyes, as she smiles and nods and plays the role of the happy bride.
It’s torture. She looks gorgeous in every dress, and it’s fucking impossible for me not to imagine her wearing them for me. Walking down an aisle to me. My hands taking them off of her later…
My cock twitches, swelling at the thought, and I grit my teeth, looking away. Giulia glances over at me, and I hear her voice call out my name. The sound of it gets me halfway to hard.
“What do you think?” she asks, and I force myself to look at her.
She’s wearing a dress that’s fitted through the top, made of lace in an intricate floral pattern, catching the light from something sewn into it. It has half-sleeves and a full, gauzy-looking skirt.
I open my mouth to say something neutral and casual, something that will deflect it and be the kind of thing her bodyguard for the day should say. But instead I hear myself say, “You look beautiful.”
Her face softens, and her lips part slightly. I swear I see a sheen in her eyes before she looks quickly back at the mirror, swallowing hard.
"I'll take this one," she tells the consultant, and just like that, the decision is made.
The days blur together after that. I spend my mornings and afternoons with Giulia, accompanying her to cake tastings, florist appointments, and meetings with wedding planners. I watch her make decisions about flowers and centerpieces and menu options, and every choice feels like another nail in a coffin. And on the nights they’re open, I go to the club.
I go to Valentina.
