10. Trilby

T rilby

The evening at the Di Santo residence was short-lived. I was both aggrieved and relieved about that. No matter how many times I tried to make conversation with Savero, he would give me a one-word (or one-line, if I was lucky) response then walk away. I didn't particularly revel in being dismissed repeatedly, but feeling the weight of Cristiano's gaze the entire night? Now, that ... That I could live with.

Before we went home, Savero announced the date of the wedding, and my stomach dropped to the floor. It's four weeks away. Four weeks. Just the thought of being married to that man in such a short time makes me lightheaded. I feel as though I only have four weeks left to live . And that's a dangerous feeling.

So when Sandrine, my classmate at art college, invited me to her birthday party at a club across town, I agreed.

Only Sera knows I've come here tonight. Everyone else in my family is none the wiser. Living in the apartment next door to them can be lonely at times, but it has its advantages.

Since I'm out on the down-low, I've dressed accordingly. My navy dress is reasonably conservative in that it covers the essential bits, but it's as snug as a dress can be. I've shunned the beige kitten heels Allegra keeps trying to force me into, and I'm standing four inches taller in a pair of my mama's favorite stilettoes.

Sweat drips down the walls, and my skin pulses to the music. Sandrine's two friends are making out with each other on the sofas, while we hover at the edge of the dance floor, sipping our drinks while swaying our hips to the music.

"Honey, we need to do this more often," Sandrine says, pulling on a Long Island iced tea. "I didn't realize how well you let your hair down, mocktail aside."

"It's because they never let me out," I shout over the music before slurping my virgin mojito through a straw.

She laughs because she thinks I'm joking, but it's going to become my reality before I know it. I'm pretty sure if Savero knew where I was right now, he'd have security lining the walls. I've already noticed a few curious heads turning. It hasn't taken long for word to get around that I'll be a part of the notorious family in a few short weeks. The only person entirely oblivious to my predicament—partly because she refuses to acknowledge the Cosa Nostra exists, and partly because she wants me to be perpetually single with her—is Sandrine.

Her gaze catches on something, but I'm too happy and adrift to give it much thought. Then she leans into my ear.

"Don't look now, but there's a fucking gorgeous guy sitting by the bar, and he's staring at you."

My skin tingles—until I remember that's not a good thing. In fact, it's terrible. As demonstrated by my future brother-in- law's propensity for disabling bartenders who don't call cabs for drunk women, a man could meet his maker if he so much as looks at me the wrong way.

"Ignore him," I shout over the music. "Besides, I'm engaged. I told you."

Sandrine flicks her hair back over one shoulder and bats her lashes in the direction of the bar. "I'll believe you have a fiancé when I see him for myself."

I roll my eyes, because the day Savero lets me parade him around in front of my friends will most likely be the day hell freezes over.

"If you're not going to make a play for him, I will. How have I not seen him around here before? He'd be a permanent fixture in my dreams , let alone my fantasies. God, he'd make the cutest babies."

I'm not the type of girl to make a play for anyone, but curiosity gets the better of me. I feign a slow twirl to the music, panning my gaze past the object of her obsession.

The idea was to keep on going, but his stare roots me to the spot.

The look in his eyes is lethal .

"It's Cristiano," I say on a gasp.

He's leaning against a stool, his legs spread as if he's much too tall to be accommodated. His elbows rest on the bar, his jacket falling open. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing just enough bare chest to make a woman's throat go dry.

Sandrine stops at my side. "You know him?"

His eyes have locked mine into a battle of wills.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Honey, there is no ‘un' about it. Who is he?"

"My fiancé's brother." As I say the words, they feel foreign. He's more than that, but it's way too much to articulate.

Her mouth hangs open, yet she still manages to speak. "Shit. I hope for your sake those ‘I want to bend you over and fuck you from here to Peru' eyes run in the family."

"I have to go talk to him." His expression says it's nonnegotiable. "I'll be right back."

The music pounds in my ears as I weave my way across the dance floor through writhing, sweaty bodies.

He doesn't move an inch as I step right up to him. Doesn't even sit up.

Cristiano has seen me on a night out once before, but this time feels different. This time he knows I'm engaged and that I probably shouldn't be here.

I drop my eyes to the tumbler of whiskey he's dangling between a finger and a thumb. I slide my hand around the glass, brushing against his, before lifting it to my lips. I'm shocked at my own behavior, but the way his gaze follows the movement and fixes on my mouth makes me feel bold.

I swallow and feel the smooth scotch heating my throat. Then I lick my lips and place the glass back in his hand. "Meeting someone?"

His gaze trails over my outfit, and frustratingly, his expression doesn't register a thing. "No."

"Then why are you here?"

He doesn't owe me an explanation, but this boldness that's come out of nowhere demands one anyway.

A corner of his mouth ticks up, but he wipes it away with a knuckle. "To keep an eye on you."

A chill coasts over my shoulders. I raise a brow, impressed he doesn't feel the need to sugarcoat it, and rest a hand casually on my hip. "Why?"

"Because my brother has had to go away on business, and I don't trust you're not going to get blind drunk again and embarrass our family."

I don't tell him I'm as sober as a judge. I shouldn't have to explain myself.

"Excellent. My own personal bodyguard. I always wanted one of those." In a move so uncharacteristic I hardly recognize myself, I lean past him to rest my forearms on the bar. "Do you offer driving services too?" I glance over my shoulder. "And fast-food delivery? Because I do love a thick, juicy burger after dancing all night."

I can sense the irritation rolling off him, and it lights me up like nothing I've ever known.

"Don't push it, Castellano." Even with the thudding bass making the room vibrate, I don't miss the threatening tone in his voice.

I turn my head another fraction. "Don't push what? You're the one following me . I'm just here with my friend, having a nice time. Besides, you shouldn't care what I'm up to. I'm not married yet."

"You're engaged to be." His voice is so low I can hardly hear it over the music.

I give up waiting for a bartender and spin around so I'm facing him. "So? That doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself."

My breath escapes when I see the look in his eyes. His gaze is aggressive as he roams it over me. "This dress ..." he hisses. "It's inappropriate ."

I'm surprised and slightly offended. Mostly, I'm sated. My dress is not inappropriate, but he's noticed it, and that makes my pulse dance.

I cross my arms, his observation emboldening me even more. "Says who?"

His glare feels like a shock. I've called his bluff, and he doesn't like it. He knows it's not his place to say whether I'm dressed inappropriately or not.

"You need to stop telling me what to do. I'm not your principessa ."

His eyes remain indifferent, but his jaw works from side to side.

I continue, emboldened. "I'm the daughter of a hardworking businessman, and I've earned the right to stand here in this club with whomever I want, wearing whatever I want."

Cristiano swallows, drawing my gaze to his throat, and without thinking, I stroke my tongue over my dry lips.

A tight grip around my wrist snaps my gaze back to his. He pulls me toward him—so close his lips warm the tip of my nose. He speaks slowly and quietly, yet the force of his words makes them unmistakable.

"I don't give a fuck who your father is. I don't give a fuck what you have and haven't earned the right to do. I don't give a fuck who you're about to marry. I don't want you getting drunk out of your mind, because I could really do without blowing another man's hands off." He pulls back and stares into my eyes. "If that's all right with you."

I yank my wrist from his grip but don't move. I can't when I'm panting so hard I'm lightheaded. Thank God he can't hear how bothered his words have made me over the volume of the music.

I'm hot and restless.

I'm also fuming .

I spin around and strut toward Sandrine, grabbing her hand as I pass.

"Trouble in paradise?" she says, giggling.

I pull her impatiently to the restroom and walk straight up to the mirrors. With the sound dulled, I turn to face her.

"Do you have any scissors in your purse?"

"Yeah." She cocks her head to one side. "And I have a chainsaw, a length of rope, and some gag tape, if you need those too."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," I remind her.

"What can I say? I left my sewing kit at home."

My gaze skates across the counter. "How good are you at ripping fabric?"

She stares at me as if I've lost my mind. "What?"

"He's here to babysit me, Sandrine, and I'm a grown woman, for God's sake. I do not need a chaperone. He just had the nerve to tell me my outfit is inappropriate. I haven't even married into the family yet! Can you believe it? Well, if he wants to see inappropriate, I'll show him inappropriate."

Sandrine has no concept of just how risky this is, my fiancé being the don of the city's biggest Mafia family and all, and it's evident in her squeal of, "Hell yeah!"

Before I can stop her, she's on her hands and knees, a nick of fabric from halfway up my thighs jammed between her teeth. I grip the vanity for balance as she tears a thick ribbon clean off the bottom of my dress.

I gape open-mouthed at the small amount of length leftover.

Sandrine spits out the fabric and holds it up, studying her handiwork. "Thou shalt not bend over in this, my lady," she says.

"I bloody shall." I grin despite the crazed butterflies zinging around my abdomen and turn to look in the mirror. "What about the neckline?" I tug it down to where my cleavage is visible.

"The neckline is fine," Sandrine says, standing. "But you could do with showing off these babies." She tugs the thick straps down over my arms, showcasing my shoulders and illuminating my collarbone.

Next she pops open her purse and squirts something iridescent onto my skin, until my cleavage shimmers under the lights.

"Holy crap. If he doesn't jump you, I will." She smacks her lips together and studies me with intent. "You need to put your hair up. You have such a gorgeous slim neck. Make him want to sink his teeth into it."

I feel a surge of intention and fish a band out of my purse. I twirl the strands into a messy bun and turn my head from side to side.

Wow.

I like to dress up, and I have a tendency to wear slightly outlandish vintage garments, but I've never taken it this far. If Papa could see me now, he would actually kill me.

Out of the corner of my eye, a girl shakes a can of what appears to be hair lacquer. When it sprays out, her platinum strands turn a gorgeous baby pink. I catch Sandrine's eye and know she's thinking the same thing.

She confronts the girl. "Would you exchange that can of spray for a kidney?"

The girl darts her eyes between the two of us and laughs. "No body parts necessary."

She holds out the can, and Sandrine swipes it from her hands, getting to work immediately. When she's finished, I glance in the mirror, and my jaw drops. I still look like myself, but ... I look like myself on acid .

Part of me can't wait to show Cristiano what he's driven me to. Another part of me is about to crap right here on the floor.

"You ready?" Sandrine says after she's handed back the spray and exchanged numbers with the girl. It never fails to impress me how easily she collects friends.

I force a nod.

Her eyes narrow mischievously, and she takes my hand. "Let's go."

We walk out into the club and have to resort to shouting again over the music.

"Shots?" Sandrine calls over her shoulder.

I coast my gaze over the bar, and my heart sinks—way more than it should. He's gone.

"Sure," I shout back, my tone flat. If ever there were a time to succumb to the lure of a fluorescent alcoholic beverage, this is it.

We reach the bar, and I feel every single male pair of eyes on me. "Self-conscious" doesn't even begin to explain how I feel. Maybe mix it with a bit of mortification and a dash of disappointment, and we'll be on the right track.

Sandrine turns around brandishing four shot glasses filled with something pink. "To match your hair, baby doll," she says with a wink.

We clink glasses and down them both.

My throat burns as the alcohol sears its way to my stomach, but as soon as the flame sizzles out, I feel calm. I feel invincible.

I feel . . . hot .

Before my brain has a chance to catch up with the message my skin is sending, Sandrine confirms my worst fear and my most dangerous bet.

"Babysitter. Ten o'clock."

I slowly pan my gaze across the dance floor. He emerges from the men's room and walks purposefully toward us. The crowd seems to part for him without him even sparing a glance. In fact, his focus is entirely on me.

A whole-body tremor racks me from head to toe.

Sandrine turns her head so the movement of her lips is indecipherable. "You show him inappropriate, girl."

I reach out to grab her hand—I suddenly don't want to be left alone with him—but she's gone.

My heart thumps at the bottom of my neck, my pulse rivalling the heavy bass bouncing off the walls of the club.

Each step Cristiano takes toward me extracts a little bit more of my breath. By the time he's standing mere inches away, forcing me to tilt my face up to his at an uncomfortable angle, I'm dizzy.

"What are you doing?" His lids are lowered, his irises almost black under the neon lights, and his voice is a low growl that rumbles beneath my skin.

I gulp warm air. "I'm enjoying a night out with my friend."

His words are bitten out. "Where's the rest of your dress?"

"The restroom."

His pupils are like sharp stones, but I can still see a world of annoyance dancing behind them.

"You have ten minutes."

My throat heats. "Until you leave?" I'm stunned at myself. I've never spoken to another man this way. I've never taunted someone like this or flirted so brazenly . And don't get me started on the fact I already belong to the most powerful man in New York, yet I'm toying with his brother . If my nights weren't already busy with recounting the hell I've lived through, this would be the stuff of nightmares.

His chest rises and falls with measured breaths. "Until I drag you the fuck out of here."

I've gone too far already, and I'm in so deep I'm struggling to see the benefit in pulling back at this late stage. "Why ten minutes? Why don't you just drag me out now?"

He leans forward until I can feel the bristles on his cheek against the side of my face. "Because I figured you'd want to say goodbye to your friend, and I just saw her disappear out the back with one of my brother's soldiers."

What?

She'll have no idea who he is, and I can't let her get involved with this family. If I can't save myself, I can save Sandrine.

I step backward and hit the bar. His body seems to wrap itself around me, trapping me into the small space. He presses a hand to my chest, and heat radiates out from where his skin meets mine. He doesn't push hard, but it's a warning. Don't fucking move.

His warm timbre rumbles in my ear. "He's young. She's hot. I give him five minutes max."

Something inside me twists painfully. He thinks Sandrine is hot.

I mean, she is hot. She's drop-dead gorgeous. He wouldn't be a red-blooded male if he didn't notice her in that way. But why does it bother me to the point I might need a painkiller to ease the tightness in my chest?

I draw my focus back to what he just said. "They went outside? Like, together?"

I feel his smile against my jawline.

"Yeah."

Wetness collects in my underwear, and I blush from my breasts to my hairline. What on earth? She's my best friend—why do I feel like I'm turned on? I don't care a dime when and where she gets off, as long as she's safe.

When he doesn't withdraw his hot breath from my skin, I turn my head. I need air. I need to cool down. I twirl a few strands of pink hair around a finger and say the boldest thing I can think of.

"Why do you want to drag me out of here anyway? It's not like I'm marrying you ."

His form solidifies, and heat radiates from him. "You may as well be."

That knocks the wind out of me. My cheeks burn up.

His hand takes hold of my neck and grips it tightly. "You're marrying a Di Santo. And not just any Di Santo."

Irritation scratches at my patience. "If I have to hear one more time it's because I'm marrying the don ..." I start, but then the feel of his lips dragging across the shell of my ear makes my stomach collapse.

"You're marrying my brother . My flesh and blood ..."

A shiver travels down my stomach and lands squarely between my legs.

"You will treat our name— my name—with respect."

My vision narrows to the veins on the side of his neck. They're corded and throbbing. And for a man whom I've yet to see break a real sweat, his skin sure is glistening with a damp sheen.

I feel a depraved urge to reach forward and lick a line from his collarbone to the soft skin beneath his ear. It's not the first time I've thought about doing something so wholly inappropriate with this man, and these strange urges are making me feel untethered. I can only hope they disappear once I've grown used to him being around.

When I'm a part of his family.

I lean back so I can look him in the eye. His jaw is as firm as his grip.

"How many minutes do I have now?" I ask with half-lidded eyes.

His teeth grind slowly. "Five."

"Are you going to let me go?"

He breathes deeply. "Go where?"

I dart my gaze to the dance floor. "I came here to dance, so if you don't mind ..."

His grip loosens, but instead of withdrawing it completely, he lays it flat against my throat and strokes it down to my collarbone. It lingers there—only for a second, but it's long enough to make me feel a chill when he removes it and pushes it deep into his pocket.

He steps aside and watches me as I strut past him to the edge of the dance floor. I don't know anyone here except for Sandrine and her two friends, but I feel an unbridled need to let off some steam; rid myself of the tension that man coils inside of me.

As if by divine intervention, "Chandelier" by Sia kicks off, and I lose myself far more easily than I anticipated, with Cristiano's gaze glued to my every move. I close my eyes and let my hips swing decadently. My legs part, and my skirt rises above the crease of my ass. The skin around my thighs burns , and I know he's watching.

I'm instantly addicted. I have his undivided attention, and it feels dangerous. For someone who loathes violence in all its forms, I suddenly want to feel his anger—or whatever it is that makes him treat me this way—in whatever form I can get it.

A warmth envelops me from behind, but I'm too lost in the music to question it, surrounded by sweaty bodies grinding to the bass. Two hands rest on my hips, moving with me as I gyrate. My lids open a little, and I see Cristiano out of the corner of my eye still standing at the bar. His cheekbones look like razorblades from this angle, and his eyes seem darker. I let whoever owns the hands on my hips move closer until I feel something pressing into my lower back. It feels obscene and too intimate, but I've come this far ...

In what is quite possibly the most uncharacteristic thing I've ever done, I arch into it, relishing the sensation of one man's arousal against my backside while I bask in another man's thunderous glare.

The music is my excuse. I'm completely lost, living vicariously through it. My fingers interlace with those on my hips, and I rest my head back against a shoulder.

Short, sharp breaths stutter past my ear. "Fuck, you are so sexy."

I quirk a lazy smile and look at Cristiano as I skim against the other man's erection. I'm so lost in the moment my brain doesn't catch up with what my eyes are seeing until it's too late.

Screams break out in every direction as the hands on my hips disappear, unbalancing me.

I land hard on the floor and find myself staring up at the man who just had his hard-on practically between my ass cheeks. He's holding his hands up in a kind of surrender. Then I pan to his face and see why.

He has the barrel of a gun pointed at his head.

I follow the outstretched arm to a thick chest I'm fast becoming far too familiar with. Cristiano has this poor, innocent guy held up at gunpoint. If that fact doesn't shake my core, the next one I recall sobers me up and rocks my foundation.

I was flirting .

I'm engaged to be married, and I was brazenly flirting with another man. In front of my fiancé's brother. And not just any fiancé—the head of the Di Santo crime family.

I clamber to my feet and reach for Cristiano. "Put it down," I plead. "Put the gun down, Cristiano. He did nothing wrong. It was me—all me."

"What was you?" His focus doesn't waver from the guy now sobbing and shaking like a damn leaf. "What exactly did you do?"

I take a deep breath. I have to come clean, be honest, and hope it's enough to get him to lower the gun. "I was flirting. I was dancing up against him. It was me. I did that, not him."

"He fucking liked it," Cristiano says with gritted teeth.

"It doesn't matter." Panic lurches into my bloodstream. "He doesn't know me or you. He doesn't know who I'm engaged to. He didn't mean any harm. Please ... put the gun down. Please, Cristiano."

A small hand rests on my arm, and I almost collapse with relief at the sound of Sandrine's voice. "What the f—?" She leans into me and whispers, "He's got a gun, Trilby. Step the hell away."

I turn and mouth, "I know."

She jerks her head back toward the exit. "Come on." Her face is filled with panic. She truly does have no idea what family I'm marrying into.

I furrow my brow in apology. "You go. I'll call you in the morning."

The music has stopped, and the club is now almost empty. Security guards are dotted around the edges, and it strikes me they haven't stepped in to stop Cristiano and help this innocent guy being held at gunpoint.

I glance at their faces. They wear the same expressions as the bartenders and the waiters. They're not surprised by Cristiano's actions, because ... they've seen this show before.

It dawns on me even this place, situated at the opposite end of the city, is owned by the Di Santos.

Sandrine's gaze darts between me and Cristiano. She shakes her head in confusion.

"Seriously," I urge. "Go on home, Sandy. I'll be fine, and I'll make sure this guy is too."

She backs away slowly, her eyes wide and terrified. Yep, she likely has no idea what her lover boy is involved in either.

I turn back to the scene to find nothing has changed. Cristiano still looks as calm and lethal as a sniper with a thousand lives in his holster. The guy I was dancing with looks like he's actually pissed himself.

It's already become clear Cristiano doesn't listen to me, so I have to try something else.

I walk around the back of him and slip my hand into his free one. It's bone-dry, no sweat to speak of, and as still as a sleeping baby. If his pulse has ratcheted up a notch for holding someone at gunpoint, there's absolutely nothing on his person to make that obvious.

I look up at his face. It's completely still. But then his jaw squeezes tight, just for a second, and his fingers curl around mine.

My heart flutters up my chest.

"Come on," I say. "Let's go."

He doesn't respond, but the feel of his fingers sends tendrils of fire up my arms.

"Cristiano," I whisper up at him. "Take me home."

His chest expands, then he shoves his gun into the guy's head, forcing him to stagger to the ground. His voice is pure venom as he directs it at the trembling mess now scooting backward along the floor.

"If you so much as look at this woman again," he hisses, "you won't be alive to see dawn. Do you understand?"

The man turns his face and nods manically. "I-I promise ..."

Cristiano faces me, and I feel the full strength of his loaded stare. It's hard and flinty—the polar opposite of his soft fingers, which are threaded through mine. His voice dips even further. "And don't even get me started on what will happen to you if you so much as breathe in another man's direction."

My instinct is to argue, because I don't let anyone tell me who I can or can't look at, speak to, breathe in the vicinity of ... But Cristiano isn't bluffing. There's something dark and unequivocal in his expression, so I just blink at him rapidly.

A sinister growl erupts from deep in his chest. Before I can question it, Cristiano's striding toward the exit, and since my hand is still enclosed in his, I can do nothing but try to keep up.