Page 465 of Rosetti Family New York
His eyes travel down, taking in how the dress clings. When they meet mine again, there's something predatory that steals my breath.
"I see a woman who'll have every man wondering what it would take to make her theirs," he says, voice rough. "And I see myself making clear that answer is nothing they can afford."
The possessiveness thrills me more than it should. This is new—acknowledgment of what's building between us.
"Van," I whisper, uncertain what I'm asking.
He steps closer, close enough I must tilt my head back. Close enough to see his pulse jumping, matching my racing heart.
The car horn breaks the spell.
"Ready?" He offers his arm like a gentleman.
"Let's go play the part."
The Four Seasons glitters with wealth that makes Rosetti parties look modest. Chicago's elite in their finest, champagne flowing freely.
Van's hand rests at the small of my back—possessive but subtle. Perfect public performance.
I notice things now—how he catalogs every face, every exit. The tension in his shoulders. How he keeps me on his left, away from his dominant hand.
"Mr.Reyes, Ms.Rosetti. Welcome to the Midwest Medical Research Gala. Table twelve."
Of course Dom arranged premium placement.
Moving through the crowd, I spot Torrino watchers trying to blend. Men whose posture doesn't match their suits, women whose jewelry seems off.
"How many?" I murmur against his ear.
"Six confirmed. Probably more."
The knowledge should frighten me. Instead, I feel strangely calm.
A waiter passes with champagne. Van hands me a glass, our fingers brushing. I wonder if he's remembering our kiss like I am.
"To playing our parts," he says.
"To dangerous evenings," I counter.
The crystal rings clear as we drink. Van's hand returns to my back, thumb brushing bare skin. The simple contact sends warmth through me, intensified by the public setting.
"Carmela," I breathe.
He leans closer, mouth near my ear. To observers, we're sharing intimacies. But his words make me shiver.
"When we get home," he whispers, voice controlled but intense, "we're going to discuss what you found. What it means. What you want." His breath ghosts across my ear. "And if you still want to explore that room, I'll teach you exactly what trust means."
My champagne glass trembles. The ballroom fades. There's only Van's promise and my body's immediate response—anticipation mixed with nervous excitement.
"Van," I whisper.
He straightens, hand still possessive at my back. When he looks at me, I see promise and control and something that makes my knees weak.
"Smile," he murmurs. "We have a performance to give."
I smile bright and perfect while inside I'm burning with curiosity about what the night will bring. About what trust means to a man like Van.
I can hardly wait to find out.
