Page 87 of Rosetti Family New York
I twirl her around, pulling her against me with a force that sends a message. This is power. This is dominance. This is me. Her chest presses against mine, and I swear I can feel her heartbeat, steady and unfazed. It's maddening.
She bats her eyelids with a mocking sweetness that nearly makes me laugh. “Of course. And hand-to-hand combat.” Her words slice through the music, cutting straight to my core.
There it is. A flicker of heat in her gaze, a flash that breaks through her controlled exterior. I see the fire, real and vibrant. It strikes me hard, makes me hard, and I’m left wanting more. It makes me want to conquer her, to strip away those layers until I’m the only thing she’s thinking of until she’s breathless and begging.
It takes all my strength to pull away before I rip that red dress off her. This is not the place to show her how badly I want to own every inch of her. Not yet. I can’t have the city whispering about the Rosetti heir’s blue balls just days after the wedding.
I steer her through the crowd again. More faces turn. People murmur our names. She plays the role of the perfect wife too well. She stands beside me, smiling when she should smile, quiet when she should be quiet. An accessory, beautiful and unbreakable.
A couple of real estate bores approach, and I introduce them to Besiana. Watching her closely, I’m pleased to see she doesn’t smile at them until after I’ve spoken. I let her linger with the property developers and their wives while I find my brothers, each glance back at her setting my jaw tighter. She’s still sereneand poised when I spot them. Raffaele has a drink in hand and looks at me with a knowing grin.
“Didn’t think you’d show up,” he says, leaning against a pillar like he owns it. His black leather gloves don’t match the tux, but they suit him.
“We don’t all have the luxury of ignoring the boss,” I reply, throwing a look at Matteo and Emilio, who are deep in conversation and barely acknowledge me.
Rafe snorts. “You mean Salvatore or the woman?”
I ignore him and take a long drink. “We need to talk about Iride distribution.”
“We’ve gotta get it on the streets, Dom,” he says, his grin gone. “We can move it fast. Make a shitload of money.”
“Make a mess, you mean,” I counter. “This stays high-end. Low profile. Rich clients only. Exclusive clientele with deep pockets who know how to stay out of trouble.”
He narrows his eyes, ice blue and cutting. “It’s too slow. Too fucking soft.”
“It keeps it under control,” I say. “Keeps it from getting ugly.”
“It’s a fucking drug, not a puppy,” Rafe shoots back.
He follows it up with more bullshit, but I’m too distracted to listen. Besiana has been politely declining invitations to dance, but now she’s talking to one of the real estate moguls one-on-one, with no sign of the fucking wives. And she’s laughing. Too close to another man. The sound of her laughter cuts through the room, and my grip tightens around the glass.
“It’s my fucking call, Rafe,” I spit out.
I’m halfway to Besiana before he finishes, my attention on her and the man beside her. He’s talking too much, gesturing with his hands like he has any right to put them so close to my wife. Her laugh is bright, almost real, and the jealousy flares sharp in my chest. He shouldn’t be near her. No one should. I don’t fucking care if I make a scene.
Then the music changes, and her face freezes. It’s gone white, all the color stripped away. Her smile drops, and she isn’t laughing now. She looks like she can’t breathe. I forget about the man and focus on her. My own breath catches, and I’m in front of her before I know it, my hand on her arm.
“Besiana.”
Her eyes are wide, empty. “Dom—”
“What is it?” I ask. I scan the room like it’s something I can destroy with a look.
The music. The string quartet has switched songs. I recognize the tune, low and lilting.
She’s trembling, and my chest twists.
“Besiana.”
“I can’t—” She’s gulping for air, her hand at her throat. “I can’t be in here.”
The man starts to say something, but I shoot him a look that shuts his mouth. I wrap my arm around her and steer her towards the door. The crowd blurs as we push through, and then the night hits us again, cold and raw.
We stand under the cover of the entrance, and she leans against the stone, breathing hard. I’ve never seen her like this, exposed and broken. Something in me snaps.
“Talk to me,” I say. “Did that man say something to you? I will fucking kil—”
“I’m fine,” she says, but it’s a lie, it’s written all over her body.
