Page 54 of His Bride

Afterward, he requested a different table, like cutting a blade through someone’s palm is an everyday occurrence. Perks of being a Del Rossa. You’re untouchable.

God, this place amplifies all the feels. The heartache. The loneliness. The longing.

I don’t want to be here. At all.

Shifting on the leather seat in the back of the car, my driver doesn’t say a word. He watches discreetly, even though the motor purrs. If I say the word or my bodyguards give the signal, he’ll take off without hesitation.

The guards standing by my passenger side door are two of my father’s men. I hate the security detail, having eyes follow me around, but I know it’s necessary, and I’ve learned my lesson about not fighting battles I can’t win.

A deep sigh leaves my lips as I glance down at the papers.

I shouldn’t have to be here. Our lawyers could have handled this without any complications. I made sure it would be super simple and airtight. I don’t want a cent of the Del Rossa money. I’ll sign NDAs out the wazoo. I just want this over and done with.

I sent the ring and divorce papers to him, my part signed, by courier.

One day later?

The papers, minus the rings, arrived on my doorstep, his part unsigned. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text.

You want me to sign it, you can deliver it yourself.

When I turned the envelope over, he’d written…

Come on over and we’ll talk.

No way was I about to head to the Del Rossa mansion. Not even if he had all the answers to all the problems in the world and a pot of damn gold. Because I don’t trust him.

Sure, he’s baiting me. I know bait when I see it, dangling and shining from the fingers of a certain hot and deadly man. But what if it’s just a ruse to lock me up?

I look at yesterday’s texts. Because I’m the one who caved.

Fine. I’ll meet you. Carmines. 7pm. Thursday.

Boring. You’re boring without me. Tomorrow. 8pm. Our place.

We don’t have a place.

I can think of plenty of places to call our own. Beds, floors, walls, the wooded grounds of a sex club hunt.

Vine. 8pm.

Fine

Wear something pretty just for me.

“Ass,” I mutter, sliding my phone back into my purse.

Honestly, I thought about the ugliest thing I could find at some outlet store, but instead, I just chose a simple, boring black dress, a small shrug, stockings, heels, and make-up. No jewels.

I knock on the window, and one of the guards opens the door. He helps me out, and with him and his buddy flanking me, I head into the restaurant, shoulders squared, trying my best to ooze confidence with every step, even though my nerves are chewing away at my insides.

The maître d smiles as I walk in. “Mrs. Del Rossa.”

“Belucci,” I correct him. Fuck knows why; it’s not like it matters. I’m just being stubborn.

“Mr. Del Rossa’s waiting for you.”

I should have made him wait longer. Nine? It’s already half past eight.

---