Page 86 of Rosetti Family New York
"Sometimes we get physical," Matteo adds with a wicked grin.
"But love comes first." Carmela tugs a stray curl. "That's what counts."
She says it like it's that simple. Like love is enough to keep bones and loyalties intact. I wonder if that can be true. I doubt it.
I shake my head to clear it and remove my hands from beneath my legs, placing them carefully on the leather beside me. It doesn’t matter what mind games these Rosettis are playing with me, I know how my own family works, and I must keep Baba happy, or else. So I push aside my thoughts of the Rosettis and turn my mind to Iride. That is something I can understand.
7
Domenico
Manhattan's cold slaps me in the face as I open the limo door. The pavement shines with rain. October in New York. The night smells like exhaust, the wind howling down the street. I pull Besiana beside me as we walk up the steps of the Met, our shoes loud on the wet concrete. She shivers a little in her dress, and I feel the eyes of the city on us—ravenous, waiting. Her dark hair is like ink against her bare skin. Her heels could be weapons. This is a test, for both of us. My hand grips hers tighter. The flashbulbs explode around us, and I keep walking. I want them to look. I want them to see her, to know she’s mine.
Inside, the gala unfolds, all glitter and noise and light. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, spilling gold onto the crowd below. Men in tuxedos and women in dresses worth more than some men’s lives. Laughter and music drown the air, mixing with the smell of champagne and rich perfume.
But all I see is red. Besiana’s dress. The low cut makes her look exposed, almost fragile, but there’s strength in the way she holds herself, head high, spine straight. She is perfect. More than the daughter of my father's enemy. More than an obligation.
I lean close to her, my mouth at her ear, watching the way she steels herself for my words. “Let’s make them talk,” I say.
Her eyes flicker up to mine, cool and composed. “I thought you didn’t care for gossip.”
“I don’t,” I say, pulling her through the room. “But it’s time they know who you are.”
She doesn’t resist. We weave through the sea of people, and the looks follow us, hungry and shocked. They probably didn’t believe that the Rosetti heir married so fast. Besiana is too calm, too collected, and I wonder how much of this is an act. I want to see what’s beneath it, beneath her.
I grab a champagne for Besiana from a passing tray and order a whiskey for myself.
“Stay by my side,” I tell her. “I want you where I can touch you.” I don’t touch her, though, she hasn’t earned that yet.
I’ve never said that to another woman, but I want to see just how obedient my new wife is. How far I can push her before she bites back and shows me that fire I know is lurking beneath the surface.
“Of course, Domenico,” she replies serenely, not faltering for even a moment.
“Smile at no one unless I speak to them first.”
She may not know it, but my wife is surrounded by predators, by charming liars and power players. And I don’t just mean myself.
“Certainly.” She sips her champagne and looks around with a benign expression, completely untouched by my commands.
Her obedience unsettles me. Every request, every demand—she doesn’t falter. I thought this would be different, that she would resist, that the fire I saw before wasn’t just a fluke. It makes me want to push harder, to see if she will crack, to see what she’s hiding. I test her again. Her acceptance pierces me more than defiance would.
When a string quartet starts up and the bolder guests begin to sway, I lean forward and whisper into my wife’s ear. “Dance with me. Only me.”
Her obedience is disarming and exhilarating, especially since I know it masks fire. How far will she let me push her? Who will she be when I break past that icy calm? How long before the spark catches and she shows her true colors? I don't know, and it's thrilling.
I pull her against me as the music swells, both of us moving in sync. Her body flush against mine sends a message to the crowd, one that echoes louder than the notes—possession. There isn’t an ounce of romance in the way I twirl her around the floor, only raw display. She’s more than a wife; she’s a statement. A claim. Let them see. Let them wonder how I managed to get my ring on the Albanian mafia princess so quickly.
My lips brush against her ear, and I know she must feel the heat of my skin.
“You dance well,” I murmur.
“Of course,” she replies smoothly, not even a blink. “I was trained in every art of high society. And family life.”
Her voice is like ice, stressingfamilyin a way that tells me exactly which one she means. The Albanian one. Not just her sweet old mom and pop. There’s a hint of arrogance in the way she says it, as if to remind me she’s not just some trophy. Remind me who she really is underneath that beautiful exterior.
Even as I pull her tighter and the music wraps around us, she stays perfect. There are no fractures in Besiana. No cracks. Her shoulders are back and chin high, her face like porcelain. I keep expecting her to falter, to show some sign of weakness, but she’s flawless, and it makes me even hungrier to know what she’s hiding beneath that pristine surface. Every moment of silence between us stretches the tension tighter, and I wish shewould say something, anything, just so I can watch those cool, calculating eyes for a hint at what she’s really thinking. What she’s really feeling.
I test her again, my voice low. “Every art? Including seduction?”
