“No, Tesoro. I’m admiring.”
“Tesoro…what’s that mean?” Her attempt at my accent was clumsy but fucking adorable.
She was stunning in the low light. Her fingers traced the rim of her wineglass, anxious circles that made my cock twitch beneath the table. She was mine. Signed. Sealed. Branded with my name.
“It means treasure. My treasure.”
Her lips parted around a shaky breath, and lord help me, I wanted to be the reason she forgot every coherent thought in her pretty little head. I wanted to reach across the table, grab her chin, and kiss that sound right out of her throat. But I held back; I needed to be patient. I’d earn her trust, then I’d devour her.
The air between us thickened, yet she held my gaze, her cheeks flushing pink. For a moment, the world shrank to just her eyes, her lips, the way her chest rose and fell a little too fast.
Then my father appeared at our table like a ghost in a slate suit. Pale hair. Steel eyes. A mouth that never smiled at me without a motive.
“Lorenzo.”
“Father.”
I kept my eyes on Zara, who had gone still, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth.
“Who is this?” His voice was ice wrapped in silk.
I stood slowly, deliberately placing myself between them. “This is my wife. Zara.”
“Your wife?” His laugh was sharp, brittle, a knife on glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not married.”
“We signed the papers this afternoon. Judge Reynolds officiated.”
The silence stretched. I could feel Zara’s eyes on my back, wide and confused. I should have warned her. I wanted her claimed in front of everyone, even knowing how toxic my father could be. Some part of me needed her to see all of me—the parts that craved ownership and the parts shaped by venom—so she’d know exactly what she was getting.
“Look at her. She doesn’t even have the decency to dress like she belongs in this city.”
“She belongs wherever I say she belongs.”
“Don’t be a fool, Lorenzo. This will be annulled.”
“I fulfilled my end.” I turned to face him fully, letting him see the coldness in my eyes. “You wanted me married. I’m married. Now leave.”
“Hm…I see.” He pulled out the chair opposite Zara and sat down without invitation. He folded his hands on the tablecloth, studying her like a specimen under glass. “So you’re the one who trapped my son.”
Zara’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t trap anyone.”
“No? Then explain to me how a woman from—where are you from, exactly? The suburbs? A studio apartment?—ends up married to a Falcone.”
“Father, that’s enough?—”
“I’m not talking to you.” He didn’t even glance at me. His gray eyes pinned Zara. “Tell me, dear. What do you do for a living?”
She hesitated. “I’m a marketing assistant.”
“Assistant.” He let the word hang, dripping with contempt. “So, no steady income. No job security. No family name worth mentioning. And you expect me to believe you’re not after our money?”
“I didn’t marry him for money.”
“Then why? Love?” He laughed again, cold and ugly. “You couldn’t have been around that long; this is the first i am hearing of you. Love doesn’t happen overnight. Lust does. Greed does. Stupidity does.”
Zara’s hands clenched in her lap. I saw the tension in her shoulders, the way she pressed her lips together to keep from snapping back.
“No answer?” My father leaned forward. “Let me ask you something else. How did you meet my son? In a bar? Through a mutual friend? Or did you track him? Research him? Decide he was your ticket out of mediocrity?”
