Page 7 of Pride

I know too much about Giovanni Vincenzi not to feel disgusted by his words. Rumors about him and the way he treats women abound. He’s rich, reckless, and has been raised to get exactly what he wants with no accountability. They say he likes to go with hookers because with enough money, no one will sayanything about what he does to them or how he leaves them. I’ve heard he likes to choke women. That it turns him on to watch them struggle.

“I can’t say the same for you,” I say through gritted teeth.

That earns me a laugh. “Very feisty, Sera. I like it.”

It galls me to think he might believe I don’t hate him. “That’s unfortunate,” I shoot back. “Pray, tell me what I can do that you don’t like.”

He gives me a lazy grin. The man is handsome, I have to admit, with pale blue eyes and wavy blond hair that hardly betray his Italian roots. Like many of the men in our world, there’s a ruthlessness to his expression, a hardness to the set of his jaw. But underneath that, there’s something else. I’ve always wondered if I was just imagining it. But here and now, with him looking at me as though I’m a trophy to be won, I know it’s not just my imagination. Something essential in him is missing.

I square my shoulders and force myself not to look away from him. “You can’t possibly want to marry someone who can’t stand you, Giovanni.”

“Can’t I? On the contrary. I’ve always liked a challenge.” He arches a brow. “You act like you’re too good for every man in this room, Sera. But your father needs you to marry. He’ll choose someone for you, whether you want them or not. Be careful who you decide to scorn. If you’re not, you may end up with old, fat Bobby Bianchi. I’m sure he’d be happy as hell to have you under him while he grunts and groans and sweats on top of you in bed.”

Alarmed, my head spins to look in horror at the Bianchi capo. My God, I’d forgotten Stefano’s father was a widower. Daddy would never.Would he?

Giovanni leans closer. He grabs my arm, pulling me to him so close that I can smell his breath. Under the seductive tone of his next words, there’s a cruel, icy edge. “So don’t let your foolish pride guide you into making a poor decision. Still, I do like itwhen women are not too willing. Makes it more exciting. Keep it up, Serafina. The more you say no, the more you’re definitely catching my interest.”

A sharp wave of nausea hits my gut. I swallow down the taste of bile. Adrenaline shoots through me like prey in the grasp of its predator. I can’t even manage a barbed retort. Turning on my heel, I wrench my arm away from him and bolt out of the room.

Gasping for breath, I head quickly through a side hallway, whispering a frantic prayer under my breath that Giovanni won’t follow me. I almost run toward a set of French doors that lead to the back patio and pool area.

Mercifully, when I finally have the courage to turn and look back at the house, I find I’m alone. I let out a huge groan of relief, my body instantly releasing all the tension that I’ve been holding since the evening started. I take in a huge breath and exhale it all in one go, and then shake my head, letting out a soft laugh at how afraid I just allowed myself to get.

“You’re okay, Sera,” I whisper to myself. “You’re fine.”

I’m so relieved to be out here alone, away from all of the madness, that I fling myself into a deck chair. More deep breaths. I turn my face up to the night sky, as though the stars could shower down on me and wash the last ten minutes away.

“If you’re planning on going for a swim, I don’t think that dress is going to work for you,” A deep voice says behind me.

With a squeak of alarm, I scramble out of the chair and stand up, almost stumbling on my high heels. A large, strong hand shoots out to grab my arm, steadying me. “Whoa there!” the voice says.

“I’m —” I gasp, struggling for words.

“Serafina Mucci,” the man says smoothly. “Yes, I know. Apparently, I’m one of your potential suitors.”

Finally steady on my feet, I look up — way up — into the face of a dark, square-jawed man who is smirking at me. Instantly, I know who it must be.

Antony D’Agostino.

The Young Lion. That’s what they call him. Funny, I always imagined him as a stocky man with a mane of long, golden hair because of that. The reality is much different. He’s tall — at least six feet four inches — with dark hair and eyes like coal. I’ve heard all about him. He’s soon to be capo of the D’Agostino family. People are already talking about him as potential boss material someday. I know he’s arrogant, brash, and cutthroat — all of the things I have never liked.

But damn, is he hot.

Antony’s lip curls up a bit as he releases my arm and gives me a cool, appraising gaze. He takes his time looking, and doesn’t say a word. It makes me uncomfortable. I feel heat rushing to my cheeks.

“What?” I demand.

“Just appraising the goods,” he says.

My hackles instantly raise. “You can stop ‘appraising,’” I bite out. “I’m not interested. I’m not looking for a husband.”

He raises a brow. “I’m not looking for a wife.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“You know why I’m here.” I twist my features into a grimace of disgust. “I didn’t have a choice.”

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