Page 7 of Not Mine to Keep

“Still, I startled you, and I feel bad. Let me make it up to you.” He reached for my arm, and I forced my eyes back to his.

I had to admit, Braden was attractive, kind, and sweet. He’d make a great boyfriend for someone. He was only a few years older than me, but he said he felt a decade older. He’d seen a lot. Like war.

But I just ... well, I didn’t feel that way for him. I hoped both Alessandro and Imani were wrong about how Braden felt about me.

“You owe me nothing. Truly.” I turned from his touch and locked my phone up. “Come on; we should get back out there.”

Setting his hand on the small of my back, he guided me to the ballroom, where I spotted one of the Sperm Donor’s three hired security guards. They rarely let me out of their sight. Thankfully, they never tried to follow me into the school building, because how would I everexplain to my administration that, to those three shadows, I was an Italian mafia “princess”?

The guards rarely referred to me by my name, which was annoying. Instead, they called meLa Principessa. As Armani DiMaggio’s daughter, I had the misfortune to be the only living heir to the throne of the DiMaggio dynasty. Once Armani croaked, I would be the last one alive connected to Italy’s oldest mafia family. How lucky for me ...

I rolled my eyes at Dickhead Number One (my names for the guards), then stumbled when I spied someone else’s eyes on me. But Braden caught my arm, preventing me from tripping over the skirt of the gown.

“Thanks,” I whispered, grateful for the save as Alessandro approached.

He cut straight through the crowd, and his presence commanded attention. Not just from me, but from everyone. Men peered his way as if recognizing an indomitable force to be reckoned with, and women gaped at him for probably the same reason, though they’d rather be wrecked via orgasm in the bedroom.

Not that I was thinking that about him and orgasms.No.I blinked.God, no.

I peeked at Braden, discovering his jaw was tight beneath his blond beard, his green eyes fixed on the man heading our way. And shit, was Imani right? Did Braden have a thing for me?

Feeling Alessandro closing in on us and realizing I was his target, doubts cut through me that he’d been sent by the Sperm Donor.

Braden’s hand slipped to my waist in a slightly possessive grip as Alessandro, in his $10,000 suit that was probably as Italian as he was, stopped before us. His eyes briefly flicked to Braden’s hand before he peered at me.

He pushed his double-breasted jacket back as he pocketed his hands. My eyes flew up the expensive fabric to the tan column of his throat, and boom—to those silvery-gray eyes.

“You performed beautifully. Nothing to worry about.” Alessandro’s words came out smooth and as sleek as that Lamborghini I’d seen him standing in front of in a picture online only minutes ago.

“She was never worried,” Braden snapped, and although I adored him, I didn’t love having someone speak for me. “Is there something we can do for you?”

“Hungry?” I wasn’t sure how Alessandro packed so much intensity into such a simple word, but my stomach answered for me with a rumble, thankfully one that couldn’t be heard over the band performing another song.

All I could do was nod. Maybe I did need someone to speak for me, after all.

Alessandro lifted one hand from his pocket and gestured toward the buffet area as his invitation to join him, seemingly forgetting Braden’s presence.

“I’ll be at the bar if you need me.” Braden finally unhanded me, and I gave him a little okay nod. Then he left me alone with the man I’d embarrassingly googled a few minutes ago.

I told myself I was only escorting Alessandro over to the buffet because I’d been rude earlier and accused him of being sent by The Asshole. Yeah, that was a better name than Sperm Donor.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” I finally spoke up as we started for the food stations. “My, um ...”Shit, I can’t call himassholeright now, can I?“My father”—cue internalgagging—“likes to set me up.”

My words appeared to have derailed our current path to get to the food. He veered off to the side of Station One, where the chef’s famous Nashville chicken sliders called my name.

Unfortunately, after stress-eating last week during my students’ exams, I’d wound up battling the back zipper last night when trying the dress on again. So I hadn’t eaten today in order to fit into it, and now I was famished.

“Your father wants an arranged marriage.” Why’d that feel like a statement from him punctuating the air and not a question of shock?

I cleared my throat, grateful yet again for the soundproofing of my bodily noises by the band jamming to a Luke Combs song. “Something like that.” And I had no plans to elaborate. Where would I even start?

The movie description of my life would be something along the lines of,A mafia princess who wants nothing to do with the evil crown longs for the freedom she once had before learning the truth of her origins.

Alessandro narrowed his bullet-colored eyes, quietly studying me like I was an enigma. Or the only unsolvable problem he’d ever encountered.

“So as I said, I’m sorry about the confusion.” I crossed my arms, burying my fingertips into the soft flesh of my biceps.

“No apology needed.” His words were clipped, like he was agitated. But I had no clue why, because it wasn’t like I’d sought him out. If I’d pissed him off earlier, why come back for seconds?

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