Trouble in back
Smile, Arabella."
My father's voice was quiet, but I knew better than to ignore it.
I turned toward him, arranging my lips into something resembling happiness.
"There," he murmured. "You look beautiful when you cooperate."
And you look like a man selling his daughter to the highest bidder.
Of course, I didn't say that aloud.
I had a talent for saying exactly what I thought at the worst possible moments, but even I knew better than to provoke my father in front of half of Italy's wealthiest criminals.
Tonight's event was being held at a magnificent estate outside Milan.
Crystal chandeliers hung above polished marble floors, a string orchestra played in the corner, and waiters drifted between guests carrying champagne.
Everything sparkled.
Everything was a lie.
My father had brought me here to meet my future husband.
Enzo Vitale.
Thirty-four, wealthy, influential, and possessing all the charm of a locked basement.
We'd met twice before.
Both times, he'd spent more time discussing my father's business than speaking to me.
Apparently, that was what passed for courtship when your family name came with a history of bloodshed.
"Remember," my father said, adjusting his cuff links, "this marriage will secure our position for years to come."
"What about my position?"
His hand stilled.
I smiled brightly.
"Just curious."
"Don't embarrass me tonight."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
His expression warned me to stop talking.
I did.
For approximately four minutes.
Then Enzo appeared beside us.
"Alessandra," he said, taking my hand before I'd even offered it.
"You look exquisite."
"Arabella," I corrected pleasantly.
His fingers tightened around mine.
"Of course."
My father laughed as though Enzo had said something charming.
I decided then that if I survived this evening without committing a felony, I deserved a medal.
"May I steal her for a dance?" Enzo asked.
My father looked at me.
Not to ask what I wanted.
To make sure I'd say yes.
"Of course," I answered before he could speak.
"I'd hate to deprive you of the experience."
Enzo's smile turned thin.
He led me toward the dance floor.
And just like that,
my evening went from unbearable to dangerous.
You're rather quiet," Enzo remarked as he guided me through the dance.
"I'm listening."
"To what?"
"The orchestra."
His hand settled lower on my waist.
I stiffened.
"Relax, darling. You're going to be my wife."
"That hasn't happened yet."
"Soon enough."
His smile was pleasant. His eyes weren't.
I tried to step away when the song ended, but he caught my wrist.
"Come with me."
"I'd rather not."
His expression changed.
It was subtle. A tightening around the mouth. A flash of irritation that disappeared almost immediately.
"Don't make a scene."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good girl."
He pulled me toward a quieter corridor before I could properly protest.
I glanced back at the ballroom. My father was deep in conversation with two men, his back turned to us.
Wonderful.
Absolutely bloody wonderful.
"Enzo, let go of me."
He didn't.
Instead, he pushed open a door leading to a dimly lit sitting room and pulled me inside.
The music became muffled behind us.
My stomach dropped.
"What are you doing?" I demanded.
"Getting to know my future wife."
"We can do that in the ballroom."
He laughed, closing the door.
"You really don't understand how this works, do you?"
I stepped backward.
"I understand perfectly well. You're going to open that door, and I'm going to return to my father."
His gaze travelled over me in a way that made my skin crawl.
"Your father owes me a great deal.
Do you think he'd risk our agreement over a little disagreement between us?"
My heart began to pound.
"I'm not a business agreement."
"No?" He approached me.
"Then what are you?"
I slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room.
For one glorious second, I felt victorious.
Then he grabbed my arm.
"You little"
"Take your hands off her."
The voice came from the doorway.
Low. Calm.
Far more frightening than shouting.
Enzo froze.
I turned.
A man stood beneath the doorway's golden light, dressed in a black suit that fit him like it had
been tailored around a weapon.
Dark hair.
Sharp features.
A face so composed it was almost cruel.
His eyes moved from Enzo's hand around my wrist to my face.
Something in his expression went cold.
"I believe she asked you to let go."
Enzo released me.
"This is a private matter."
"Then you should have kept your hands to yourself."
The stranger stepped into the room.
Enzo straightened his jacket, attempting to recover his dignity.
"Do you know who I am?"
"No," the man replied.
"And I'm already disappointed."
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Enzo's face darkened.
"You'll regret interfering."
The stranger looked at him with utter indifference.
"Try me."
Two men appeared behind him in the corridor.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Enzo glanced at them, then back at me.
"This isn't over."
I rubbed my wrist.
"That's a shame.
I was hoping you'd learned something."
His eyes flashed.
But he left.
The door slammed behind him.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then the stranger turned to me.
"Are you hurt?"
I looked down at my wrist.
"Only my pride."
His gaze remained on my arm.
"Let me see."
"I'm capable of examining my own wrist, thank you."
One eyebrow lifted.
There it was.
My mouth. Ruining things before I could stop it.
But instead of becoming angry, he gave the faintest hint of a smile.
"Good.
I was worried I'd have to rescue you twice."
"I didn't ask you to rescue me."
"No," he said.
"You seemed to be handling it brilliantly."
I folded my arms.
"I was."
"Of course."
"Are you always this irritating?"
"Only when I'm being thanked."
I stared at him.
Then, unexpectedly, I laughed.
It slipped out before I could stop it.
A small, laugh.
breathless sound that seemed to surprise us both.
For the first time that evening, I didn't feel like somebody's daughter, somebody's bargaining chip, or somebody's future wife.
I felt like myself.
And the stranger was looking at me as though he had noticed.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Dante."
Just Dante.
He offered no surname.
I didn't offer mine either.
"Arabella," I told him.
He repeated it quietly, as if committing it to memory.
"Arabella."
Something about the way he said it made my stomach flutter.
Ridiculous.
I'd known the man for perhaps three minutes.
"Thank you," I said at last.
His expression softened not much, but enough.
"You shouldn't have been left alone with him."
"I wasn't left alone.
I was escorted into a room against my wishes."
His jaw tightened.
"Yes.
I understood that part."
"And before you start giving me advice, I should tell you that I can handle myself."
"I don't doubt it."
"Good."
"Although," he added, "slapping men who have more bodyguards than sense is a dangerous hobby."
I lifted my chin.
"Then it's fortunate I have excellent aim."
This time, he actually smiled.
It changed his face in a way that seemed almost unfair.
Then someone called his name from the corridor.
"Signore Moretti."
The warmth vanished.
Dante glanced toward the door.
"I have to go."
"Then go."
His eyes returned to mine.
"Try not to slap anyone else tonight, Arabella."
"No promises, Dante."
He left without asking for my surname.
I watched him disappear down the corridor,
telling myself that I would never see him again.
I was wrong.
So very, very wrong.
