Page 17 of The Don's Soulmate

I gasp at the threat, knowing full well the power my family holds. They’re capable of locking me in here, of forging the marriage documents, of having Ugo Caputo kidnap me straight from my bed.

Whatever little control I still have, would be taken away.

His eyes bore into mine, and I see a glint of warning beneath the surface.

“Get dressed. Put on some make-up. We’ll see you downstairs,” Angelo stalks out of my room, leaving me defeated.

I slip into the dress. The fabric clings to me like a second skin, hugging me so tight that there’s a small dent in the cloth covering my naval. I can’t wear a bra and have to use pasties instead. It makes me feel so exposed, so vulnerable.

I wipe off the tears and apply a final coat of mascara, lest someone know I’m not all perky and starry-eyed.

This is will be the beginning of a never-ending performance where I must play the part of the dutiful daughter. There is no room for my own desires or dreams, no space for the real Carlotta to emerge.

I wish I’d never come back from Paris.

Ugo is already waiting for me, taking in my appearance with a lecherous grin spreading across his face, as I descend the staircase. The internet images on the society pages that I looked up after Sofia’s warning, were indeed accurate. Ugo Caputo is a repulsive man, with a bulging belly and a receding hairline, his small, beady eyes roaming over my body like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Carlotta, my dear," he says, his voice dripping with false charm. "You’re far sexier in person. I'm a lucky man to have such a beautiful fiancée."

I recoil at his choice of words, and force a small smile on my lips. I stand between my father and brother, and Ugo steps forward, taking my hand in his clammy grip. “Let’s go,” he says.

I don’t want to go anywhere with him. When fear renders me paralyzed, father steps in with a masked threat. "Don’t keep the gentleman waiting, Carlotta."

Reluctantly, I let Ugo lead me away. He keeps looking at me, at my neck, my collarbone, my breasts - never my eyes, though. I feel like throwing up.

He helps me into the back of the car and I pray he’ll sit up front. Instead, he slides in beside me from the other end. The driver pulls out of the driveway, and the first thing Ugo does is lean in close, his rancid breath washing over me. I turn my head slightly, trying to avoid the nauseating smell of cigars and liquor that clings to him like a foul cloud.

"You look like you could use a drink, Carlotta," he murmurs, his hand reaching out to brush against my thigh. I tense at his touch, the revulsion rising within me like a tidal wave.

"I-I'm fine, thank you," I manage to stammer out, my voice barely above a whisper. Ugo chuckles throatily, the sound sending shivers down my spine.

"Don't be shy now, my dear. We're soon-to-be family, after all," he says with a sly grin, his fingers crawling higher up my leg, through the slit of my dress.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to inch away from him without drawing attention to my discomfort.

"Relax, my dear," Ugo murmurs, his voice oozing with false sweetness. "We're going to have a wonderful evening getting to know each other."

I force myself to nod, my heart pounding in my chest as I feel his gaze lingering on me. Fortunately, just then, he gets a phone call and pulls away from me. Business keeps him busy for the remainder of the drive.

When Ugo's car pulls up to the restaurant, his hand slides possessively around my waist, fingers digging into my flesh through the thin fabric of my dress. "Let's go, darling," he purrs, his breath hot against my ear. "I want to show you off to everyone inside."

I nod mutely, allowing him to guide me out of the car and towards the entrance. As we walk, I can feel his gaze raking over my body, lingering on my curves in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Inside the restaurant, Ugo leads me to a table where the manager and chef come to greet him. As introductions are made, I plaster a fake smile on my face, trying to ignore the surprised looks of the staff when they learn I’m his fiancé.

When they leave, the waiter comes to take our order. I watch him be a sycophant to Ugo and just for leaving the menu, Ugo hands him a few hundred-dollar bills.

“A tip,” he says, perusing the menu. I narrow my eyes at the blatant manner in which he’s trying to show off his wealth. I notice he doesn’t hand me a menu.

“A steak for me,” he says. “And the lady will have a salad. Wouldn’t want to ruin her figure, I’m sure,” he laughs. The waiter laughs. I don’t.

“Actually, I’ll have the lasagna, please,” I interject, my voice clear and firm, surprising even myself with the assertiveness. Ugo's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his thin veneer of charm momentarily cracking before he recovers with a chuckle.

“Ah, a woman who knows what she wants,” he comments, his tone laced with amusement. The waiter nods nervously and scurries off to place our order. Ugo's eyes narrow slightly as he regards me, as though reassessing the quiet girl he thought he could control.

“I suppose,” he says, leaning forward. “A girl can treat herself once or twice.”

“I suppose,” I say drily, trying to maintain some decorum of control.

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