Page 42 of Wicked Sinner
She pulls away from my touch then—not sharply like she has before, but firmly, taking a step back and wrapping her arms around herself. "Then we're never going to agree. Because I'll never stop believing that people should have the right to choose their own lives."
The conversation is going in circles, and I can feel my frustration building. Plus, I'm already running late for dinner, and I know Konstantin’s opinions on tardiness.
"I have to go," I say, checking my watch. "We'll continue this later."
"Will we?" She settles back onto the bed, picking up the remote. "Or will you just keep making decisions for both of us and expecting me to fall in line?"
I don't answer, because we both already know the truth. And as I head for the door, I’m once again at a loss as to how we get off of this merry-go-round that I seem to have chained us to.
I leave her then, locking the door behind me with a heavier heart than the situation warrants. She's my prisoner, carrying my child against her will. Her happiness shouldn't matter to me. It should be far down the list of my concerns, far below ensuring our marriage and getting her to understand that her choices have narrowed.
But all I can think about is that instead of making her happy, I’ve made her miserable. And that makes my chest feel hollow, all the way to Vincent Torrino’s mansion.
—
The Torrino mansionis large and stately, all Spanish-style architecture on the outside and marble, gold, and crystal on the inside, a mismatch of styles that sets my teeth on edge. I'm greeted at the door by Vincent himself—a short, round man with a gold tooth near the back of his molars, surrounded by a cloud of cologne. "Caesar! So good of you to make it. Come, come, everyone is eager to meet you."
He leads me through a maze of crowded rooms toward the sound of conversation and clinking glassware. The dining room is enormous, dominated by a table that could seat more than twenty people. "Caesar Genovese," Vincent announces as we enter. "The man of the hour."
The conversation stops, and all eyes turn to me. I recognize most of the faces—Vincent's wife Clarita, a woman who's hadso much plastic surgery she looks like a wax figure, Konstantin and Tristan and their wives, of course, Konstantin’s right-hand man Damian, who doesn’t seem to have brought his wife to this dinner. Isabella is seated next to her mother, and I see Catherine and her father as well, as well as Elisa and hers. There are a few other young women that I vaguely recognize from the first dinner party, though I can’t recall their names.
Isabella looks stunning tonight; I can’t deny that. Her blonde hair is down, in curled ringlets that frame her gorgeous face, her blue eyes outlined in a way that makes them look enormous, and she’s wearing a pretty sky-blue evening dress. Catherine is dressed a bit more severely, in a black gown with pearl trim, her hair done in an elegant updo, and Elisa is wearing bright yellow, her dark hair swept half-up. They’re all looking at me, Isabella, with an eager expression that is instantly off-putting to me.
“You’ve met Isabella, of course,” Vincent says, steering me toward the chair next to her that’s pointedly been left open. I catch Konstantin’s eyes on me—I’m late, judging by how the dinner guests are already seated, and he’s not pleased. “I’ll let the two of you continue to make your acquaintance.”
Isabella smiles at me as I take a seat next to her, and I catch a whiff of sugary perfume. “It’s so wonderful to see you again, Caesar. I hope you’ve been well.”
“Well enough. Busy.” I’m aware that my curt response isn’t what she was hoping for, but none of this is what I’m good at. I need to lie to these women, to charm and flirt and pretend that I’m considering them as potential brides when that’s the last thing on my mind, and I’ve never been a liar or a playboy. I’ve had plenty of women in my bed, and I’m capable of charming them when I want to, but game-playing and manipulation are not my forte.
I left because I wanted to get away from all of that. The life that I found afterward was rough, but it was straightforward. I’d take that any day overthis.
The meal is an exercise in carefully orchestrated torture. I'm seated between Isabella and her younger sister, Sophia—a pretty brunette that makes me wonder if Vincent’s wife is his first bride, considering that Sophia looks more like her than Isabella does—while the conversation flows around topics clearly chosen to showcase Isabella’s various accomplishments.
Vincent and Clarita both speak at length about Isabella’s art history education at Columbia in New York, and how she speaks three languages, sits on the board of two charities, and has recently returned from a year studying Renaissance art in Florence. She's educated, connected, and completely devoted to the idea of being the perfect mafia wife. She doesn’t have the interest in business that Catherine and Elisa have—I’ve seen that already. She would be a trophy, not a partner.
"I've always believed that a woman's role is to support her husband's ambitions," she says at one point, looking directly at me as she speaks. "To create a home that's a sanctuary from the pressures of business."
“Very traditional,” I manage, forcing out the response that I think she’d expect from an up-and-coming heir to the title of don. “There’s always the idea of your own career, you know. Your own aspirations.”
"Oh, I could never understand that," Isabella continues, her hand somehow finding its way to my arm as she speaks. "What could be more fulfilling than building something beautiful with the man you love?"
I almost snort aloud at that. The idea oflovebeing a part of a marriage between Isabella and me is laughable, and I don’t believe for a second that she expects that. Or maybe sheissomeone who can fall in love with a handsome face, powerfultitle, and thick wallet. Maybe all she needs to love me is for me to choose her.
It makes me want her even less than I did before. I think of Bridget, alone in my penthouse, furious and defiant and absolutely unwilling to be anyone's idea of the perfect wife. The contrast is so stark it's almost painful.
"Caesar," Vincent interjects from the head of the table, "Isabella has been helping to organize the annual charity gala for St. Francis's Children's Hospital. Perhaps you'd be interested in attending? As her escort, of course."
"That sounds wonderful," Isabella says before I can respond. I make noncommittal noises about checking my schedule, but I can see the satisfaction in Vincent's eyes. In his mind, the deal is already done.
The evening drags on, with Isabella finding increasingly creative ways to touch my arm, laugh at my jokes, and make it clear that she's available for whatever I might have in mind. She's beautiful, accomplished, and would probably make an excellent don's wife—for a don who isn’t me, at least.
I couldn't be less interested if she were made of cardboard.
Every time she laughs, I think of Bridget's defiant snarls. Every time she compliments me, I remember Bridget calling me a monster. Every time she touches me, I feel nothing but a desperate wish that I was back at the penthouse, even if it means another argument.
There’s dancing after dinner, and I manage to get away from Isabella after one dance, finding myself next to Catherine on the far end of the room. She raises an eyebrow as I walk toward her, a small smirk on her mouth.
“Running from your future bride?”
