Page 58 of To Hell

Cesare is hawking at me in a way that makes me feel like I have termites crawling under my skin.

“At least, drink up. If not for anything, the collection going viral is quite the achievement.” He fiddles with something inside the inner pocket of his jaded green suit jacket.

“That’s a good way to look at things,” I say, chugging the entire content. It tastes like glorified apple cider. That, or I’m just in a mood that takes the charm away from most things.

I’m unnerved.

There is something I cannot put my finger on. That and the fact that I’m surrounded by people who might or might not recognize me as the clumsy girl from the Met Gala.

I snatch another glass of champagne from a moving waiter.

“Nice party,” I lift my empty champagne flute to wave around us. “Your mother is… beautiful.” That wasn’t what I was going to say, but now that I think about it, I can’t remember what I was going to say.

Maybe I’m getting drunk. I can’t say how many of these I would need.

“Nice party?” Cesare chuckles dryly, “You sound like I’m hosting a frat party.”

I drop the empty glass on the tray of the next waiter to swing by, disappointed that there are only empty glasses.

A frat party.

I never had the opportunity to attend one. I never got the chance to go to college.

How can I move on when everything and everyone reminds me of everything and everyone I lost?

I take one step forward and something drives me ten steps backward.

My eyes sting and I stare down at my quivering hands, breathe in as much air as I can get through my constricting lungs, and try to tamp the uproar of discomfort in my stomach.

“A dance, if you will have me,” Cesare’s green eyes flicker with an underlying rascality. When I am about to contemplate whether I want to walk into what is now feeling like an entrapment, Ettore appears beside me.

His protective arm slips around my waist, and he clutches me to his side, sending a strong possessive message to his brother. I think he never liked sharing his toys as a kid, not even with his sibling.

“Looks like my brother has other plans,” Cesare gives a mock bow, his tone light but with an undercurrent of tension. I lift my eyes to pry at Ettore’s murderous glare. I clear my throat, shifting in his arm, and he snaps out of it.

“We will have that dance,” Ettore droops his head, and I nod like some broken doll. His voice has no room for argument, and it doesn’t take long before Cesare skedaddles to something else.

Ettore leads me to the dance floor, the ease he had about him from last night and this morning in the estate completely gone. He is back to having a rod stuck up his ass.

He steps away from me and gives me his hand. I place my trembling hand on his, and he clasps it firmly. He pulls me to himself, his free arm snaking my waist, and then he leads me to the amorous tune of a string quartet playing in the background.

We are surrounded by the sophisticated and glamorous ambiance, with guests in their high-fashion outfits, exquisite floral arrangements and candelabras.

“What happened with your mother?” I pry softly, trying not to ruffle his mood any more than it already is.

Ettore's grip on me tightens slightly. “It’s all good. Don't worry about it,” he releases me so I can spin and then pulls me to his chest again.

I nod, but when he swings me around in his arms, my eyes wander to Aurora and Carmine, dancing in the distance. At that exact moment, her eyes sway toward me, but from here, I can’t read the expression in them.

“Eyes on me, Zoe,” Ettore snarks, his dark tone is one of a naked wire connecting to the one somewhere inside of me.

“Can you handle it?” I tease. I must be drunk because I’m feeling a bit dizzy and paper light. “If I give you my full attention on the dance floor,” I slip out of his grip, and before he can clutch me to himself again, I seize control of the dance.

At this point, I can feel the eyes of some of the guests on me but it is the stony look on Ettore that I focus on. I make him my pole, swirling around him, occasionally rubbing my ass against his cock, while my hands travel around his body carefully. After all, he is still my master and I’ve got an invisible leash around my neck.

He makes throaty warning sounds and grinds his teeth, and it feels like the orchestra is now playing for me—the diva from the Bratva club. I know how to work this body around a steel pole, let alone around a devilishly handsome, body-burning, and soul-consuming man.

It is then I’m hauled off the floor, thrown over his shoulder, and out of the venue we go.

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