Page 6 of A Game So Reckless

Whether or not Persephone believes my completely untrue declaration, she gets the hint and hustles away. I watch her shiny ponytail until I can’t see her anymore through the crowd and then turn to face my father.

Only it isn’t my father I come face-to-face with.

It’s Dario Fabbri.

Chapter4

Valentina

“Didn’t you used to have blonde hair?” are the first words my fiancé ever says to me. He doesn’t say them in front of our fathers or Curse. No, he didn’t really speak at all in front of the others. Didn’t even say a proper hello to his fiancée at our first official meeting. He let Rocco and my papà do all of the talking. And most of that talking was them telling me that Dario was going to take me up to a private dinner on the roof now.

Dario and I are in the condo’s sleek elevator. Curse and three of papà’s men are stationed at the elevator’s doors down in the lobby. No one will get past them.

No one’s coming up with us.

It’s the first time I’ve been alone in such a small enclosed space with a man who isn’t a member of my family.

“Yes,” I tell Dario, tossing the dark locks behind my shoulders. “I just dyed it. I’m having my hot vampire summer.”

God, this already isn’t going well. I know this isn’t how I’m meant to speak to my fiancé. I’m supposed to be refined and quiet and only open my mouth when he wants to stick his dick in it. Mamma would probably pass away on the spot if she heard me talking to Dario that way.

Dario gives me awhat the fuck?sort of look then mutters, “At least there’s time to dye it back before the wedding.”

If it weren’t for that one single word –time– my fake smile might crack right off my face. But I latch onto it like a lifeline. There’s time before I marry this absolute limp noodle of a man. Maybe even a whole year before we tie the knot. If I’m lucky.

Dario turns away from me to stare at the numbers ticking up as the elevator ascends with us inside it. I use the moment to let my gaze really take him in. The oily nose, the thinning hair, the odd hunch to his skinny shoulders, the overly flashy watch on his hairy wrist that practically screams that it’s compensating for something. And the thing is, I don’t think that I’m too shallow. I wouldn’t care all that much about what he looked like if he had some personality, some pizzazz, or even the bare minimum of politeness, for Christ’s sake.

But he’s giving me nothing. Less than nothing. A single grain of two-day old rice stuck to the side of a takeout container has more charisma than this man. When politics is so often a popularity contest based more on image than anything else, I find myself wondering, how the hell did he ever get elected?

Maybe his papà had something to do with that particular election result.

Maybe mine did.

The elevator dings, then the doors open to reveal the building’s rooftop. The sun isn’t setting yet, but it’s dipping closer to its eventual horizon, leaving the light tinged with a soft golden bronze. The heat is hazy, humid. Luxurious cream-upholstered furniture and lush potted plants are scattered artfully across the rooftop’s surface.

Across from us, at the other end, is a sprawling, fully stocked bar, and there appear to be platters of food on the shining bar top. Much like the wall between the lobby and the pool downstairs, the glass chest-high barrier around the edge of the roof is so clean and clear it’s nearly invisible. This condo building is twenty-eight storeys tall, and for a stomach-sloshing moment I imagine myself accidentally stumbling right off the edge into the summer cityscape below.

Dario walks ahead of me, not waiting for me or even bothering to look over his shoulder to see if I’m coming. I frown at his back as he heads for the food at the bar, then sigh and take a step after him. I’m still hungry, and if I want to eat more tonight, it looks like it’s going to be with him.

The first meal together of many. I should try to make the most of it. Try to find some common ground with him, or maybe unearth a redeeming quality that will keep me sane through the next decades of our marriage.

Decades.Dio mio.

Pushing that alarming thought back down my throat with a hard swallow, I straighten my shoulders and follow Dario across the roof.

It really is a beautiful place. I have to hand it to the Fabbris. They know how to construct one hell of a nice building.

I expect Dario to grab a plate and pile it with the frankly amazing array of food spread out on the reflective surface of the bar, but he doesn’t. He flops down on one of the plush chaises longues and jerks his chin at the spread.

“Bring me some of that.”

Ah. So he doesn’t want a wife. He wants a docile little servant that he can fuck. Not so different from many of the men in our world, but knowing that I’m the one meant to fill that role for him makes it all the more nauseating. I ignore his command for now, knowing I won’t be able to pretend I didn’t hear him for long.

“Just going to make myself a drink,” I say lightly, somehow keeping the irritation out of my voice. I never got my champagne downstairs, and if there were ever a time for the desperate inhalation of alcohol, it’s now.

I head behind the bar and scan the array of bottles, shakers, and glassware. As I do so, I notice a set of sliding metal doors beyond the bar near the far edge of the rooftop. It looks like another elevator, probably one meant for staff that descends down into a kitchen.

I turn my eyes from the doors and grab a shaker and a chilled glass from inside a small fridge beneath the bar. After I’ve got those, I snatch up a big bottle of vodka and a jar of olives. It’s vodka martini time. Extra dry and extra dirty.

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