18. Trilby

T rilby

I wake up disoriented. Despite the fact my restless dreams were filled with gunshots, memories of my mother, and the overpowering presence of my fiancé's brother, it still takes me a few minutes to recall the previous twenty-four hours and the reason I'm in Cristiano Di Santo's spare bedroom.

I get out of bed and unlock the bedroom door. When I remember Cristiano's warning, I open it with trepidation. When nothing on the other side of it seems amiss, I pad on bare feet to the kitchen. Or at least I try to. Blocking my path is an enormous box in the shape of a closet, bearing the name of the city's most exclusive designer boutique.

"Open it."

His voice on the other side makes me half-jump out of my skin.

"What is it?"

"Your new closet."

I huff. "I don't need a new closet. I have a perfectly good one at home."

"You're not going home. I told you."

"Then ask Allegra to bring me some of my clothes when she takes me for my gown fitting."

" I'm taking you to your gown fitting. Don't you remember anything, woman?"

I seethe quietly at the thought of being caged in, and then again at being branded "woman."

"Remembering isn't the same as agreeing." I step forward and pull the handle to the box. An unwitting gasp leaves my throat. Every single dress I've ever coveted is inside this box, and a quick skim through tells me they're all in my exact size.

"Pick one. Get dressed. We're leaving in ten minutes."

I pull a face at the command, safe in the knowledge he can't see me. "What about breakfast? I thought you said I had to eat."

"We're eating out." A smile nips at his tone. "And stop making that face. It doesn't suit you."

I glance to my right, and of course, there's a damn mirror.

"Fine." I huff again, then I pull out the shortest, skimpiest, raciest dress I can see and walk back into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

Ten minutes later, we're standing in the elevator, and I can feel the anger rolling off him in waves. I allow myself a small, satisfied smile. After all, he did buy me these clothes. Did he expect me not to wear them?

The dress I selected is fuchsia-pink and reaches only a third of the way down my thighs. It's meant to be worn with shorts, but since he only ordered bikini briefs—and small, lacy ones at that—my bottom may very well be on display should I happen to drop something and, well, need to pick it up again.

The halter neckline shows off my shoulders, and the midriff is cut away, displaying my stomach, which is even flatter for having hardly eaten anything in the past forty-eight hours.

Come to think of it, I haven't eaten a great deal since the engagement. I'm not trying to starve myself; I simply haven't had an appetite since that fateful day.

The heels aren't as high as I'd have liked, but at three inches, they're still formidable. I was careful to choose a pair that gives good toe cleavage. And if the way Cristiano's eyes keep dropping to them is proof they do the trick, I chose well.

He doesn't utter a word when we reach the car. He just opens the door and averts his gaze while I slide into the low seat.

When he starts the engine, I glance sideways at his expression. He's feigning indifference, but his jaw is tense, and if he grips the wheel any tighter, he'll pull the whole thing off.

"Where are we going for breakfast?"

He keeps his eyes on the road and his words crisp. "Lucio's."

I swallow. Lucio's is only the most popular restaurant in this neighborhood. Anyone who's anyone dines there—not only for the amazing food but to be seen .

Does Cristiano want us to be seen?

"Is that the best idea considering you're supposed to be keeping me out of sight?"

"I never said I was keeping you out of sight. I think ‘safe' is the word you're looking for. God, woman. You're either immensely forgetful or you're purposely trying to infuriate me."

"Wow. Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"I didn't sleep."

My eyes dart back to the road. I want to interrogate that, but I'm worried about what I might uncover.

"I'm not sure ‘woman' is an improvement on ‘Castellano,'" I say. "You know, you can use my given name. I even answer to it."

He doesn't reply. Not with words anyway. His knuckles on the other hand grow a paler shade of white as they threaten the steering wheel's very existence.

"It's an expensive restaurant to go to just for breakfast," I point out.

"So?" He snorts, and I roll my eyes at how even that sounds sexy. "What does it matter anyway? It's not like you eat anything."

I turn my head away and resolve to order everything on the menu.

Cristiano parks right outside the restaurant—illegally, but I doubt anyone will challenge a member of the Di Santo family, whether they're active in the mob or not. I don't wait for him to open the door before I stretch out my bare legs, which I can tell bothers him. He huffs out a tight breath as I brush past and make my way to the entrance, my heels tapping soft clicks across the warm asphalt.

A male host greets us. He's already flustered before we step inside. "Mr. Di Santo, your, um, table is ready. Please come this way."

We're taken through the middle of the restaurant, and I can feel the heat of heads swiveling to assess us. When they realize we're not famous, some return to the more exciting prospect of a freshly made mimosa. Others linger on the impeccably dressed man walking behind me, his eyes on my dress, muttering about how he's going to "send it back and get a fucking refund."

We reach the table, listen to the list of specials as we sit, and then settle into an uncomfortable silence. Cristiano finally rests his eyes on me with an air of thinly veiled annoyance.

"Is everything okay?" I twirl a wavy hair around a finger and beam at him.

"Couldn't you have chosen something more ... conservative to wear to breakfast?"

I tip my head lightly to one side and bat my lashes. "What can I say? I assumed since you picked it out, it was okay to wear it."

He regards me with a lethal glare. "It's an evening dress, not a breakfast dress."

I smile sweetly. "I've had breakfast in less conservative dresses than this."

I've never been this bold with anyone, but for some reason, I feel safe with Cristiano. Perhaps knowing he almost kissed me last night bought me some insurance against him betraying my words and my behavior to his brother.

He swallows and unashamedly coasts his gaze over my bare shoulders, down my collarbone, to my breasts. I feel my nipples harden until they're standing to attention under his stare.

A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth before he slowly drags his gaze back to mine.

"Any word from Savero?" I ask, masking a shiver as it coasts down my spine.

Just like that, his eyes darken, and he shakes his head once. "Not since last night. He's safe though."

I swallow and look across the other tables—anywhere but at him. "Where will I go when he returns?"

After a long pause, I glance at him to see his teeth grinding together.

"You'll go to the main house—the Di Santo residence. That's where you'll be living."

"Yes, after the wedding. I want to go home until then. I want to be with my family."

"It's not possible." His reply is laced with boredom. "I've already explained. You're not safe at your father's. To be frank, neither is the rest of your family. I've already drawn up plans to install new surveillance tech at the house and to reinforce the perimeter. Now your father has formed an official alliance with Savero, you all have a price on your head." He sits back in his chair, still regarding me with measured indifference. " You have the highest price of them all."

I shiver again, feeling the cold, conditioned air touching my shoulders.

He summarizes for good measure. "You'll be safest at the house, so that's where you'll be."

A waiter appears at the table and looks at Cristiano expectantly. I know we're living in contemporary times, but doesn't the waiter usually ask for the woman's order first?

Then I understand. He expects Cristiano to order for me.

Over my dead body.

I clear my throat, drawing the gazes of both men to me, and sit tall.

"I will have the porcini omelet." I give the waiter my most sugary smile.

"Um ..." He glances nervously at Cristiano, whose head hasn't moved but casts a suspicious glance at me out of the corner of his eye. "Would you like that with or without Périgord truffle?"

"With," I say brightly.

The waiter scribbles something with a trembling hand and then turns his body back toward Cristiano.

I clear my throat. "I would also like the fruit cup—no pineapple—and a turmeric shot to start, a small bowl of coconut yogurt, with granola on the side ... and can you bring a small jug of maple syrup? Actually, no. I hear you do a sensational blueberry compote. I'll take that instead. And ..."

Cristiano's gaze is narrowed. He knows exactly what I'm playing at. I smile like I just hit the jackpot.

". . . an espresso."

The waiter's gaze flits between me and my breakfast partner as if he's experiencing a panic attack, while Cristiano and I embark on an all-out staring contest.

"And for you, sir?"

Cristiano keeps his glare fixed on me while he hands his menu back to the waiter. "I'll just take the eggs Benedict."

"Thank you. I'll be right back with some water." The waiter scurries away as if he's just been electrocuted.

Cristiano shrugs off his jacket and maintains eye contact as he hooks it over the back of his chair. Then he rolls up his shirtsleeves, rests his forearms on the table, and leans toward me.

"No fruit cup for you?" I force a thread of innocence into my voice in the hope of disguising the avalanche of lust crashing over me at the sight of his thick, inked, and corded forearms.

The waiter returns quickly and pours us each a glass of water. I barely wait for him to finish before I gulp mine down in one. A trickle slips down my chin, and I finally avert my eyes to dab at it with a napkin.

"I'm not as hungry as you, it seems," Cristiano says.

I arch a brow. "Didn't your mama ever tell you growing men need to eat?"

"I kind of hope I've stopped growing." He tips back his own water, and unlike me, he doesn't spill it down his chin. "It would be a pain to have to go up yet another shoe size. Sixteens are already hard to come by."

I gulp and lean backward, only to silently curse the tablecloth for concealing everything south of his waist.

I lift the drinks menu and fan myself. I was shivering a minute ago—why has it suddenly become so damn hot in here? The last thing I want is to coat my body in a sheen of sweat before I change into my bridal gown.

"How did you sleep?"

His abrupt change of topic startles me.

"Um, I slept well, thank you ... Relative to how I normally sleep."

"And how do you normally sleep?"

"Fine." I force a smile onto my face.

"Fine?" There's a note of impatience in his voice, and somehow I know I'm not going to get away with confessing anything but the truth.

My breath shortens. I've lived with erratic sleep patterns, insomnia, and night terrors ever since Mama's murder, but I've never talked to anyone about it. Living in the apartment helps. If no one can hear my screams, no one will ask any questions.

Oh.

My cheeks heat under his determined scrutiny.

"You won't lock your door tonight."

It isn't a request; it's an instruction. And it sets my pulse racing.

Shame creeps across my skin, making me shudder. What did he hear? I don't know what I sound like when I have nightmares—all I know is I wake up drenched with sweat, my throat hoarse, and my limbs shaking. I don't want to bring that part of my life into this one—although, admittedly, that ship might have sailed.

I don't want to bother anyone with my problems—least of all Cristiano. They're my problems, not his. And I'm not his responsibility. Nor am I his charity case.

"Whatever you heard ..." I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

He watches me steadily, but he looks pissed. "Yes. So you've said." His nostrils flare as he breathes in a ragged breath. "You still won't lock the door."

I stare back at him. "I thought I had to for my safety ."

He swallows and wipes the pad of a thumb across his mouth. "Let me be the one to worry about that."

Not wanting to draw attention to my now quivering hands, I wring them together beneath the tablecloth.

The food arrives mercifully quickly, simmering the tension that's settled over the table, and I feel full just looking at it.

Cristiano rests his chin on his hands and watches me, his brows raised in a challenge.

I push back my shoulders and swallow the turmeric shot. A flame erupts in my throat.

Fuck, it's spicy.

I smile sweetly and spear a piece of fruit, then I glare at Cristiano as I chew and swallow. "Are you going to eat your eggs, or do you prefer to just stare at me while I eat?"

He runs his tongue over his teeth as if he's only just getting started, then he wordlessly cuts into his breakfast. By the time he's devoured it in four mouthfuls—and yes, I counted—I've managed to put a two-strawberry dent into my three dishes.

I gently push the fruit to one side and pick up my spoon. I lift a scoop of granola-laden yogurt up to my face, and my stomach tightens. Why did I choose yogurt? It's thick and oozy and impossible to swallow at the best of times.

Cristiano's gaze warms my face, so I do what any worthy opponent would do and go in for the attack. The yogurt sits unmoving on my tongue, and I attempt to smile as I squish it around my mouth. The texture is all wrong for how I'm feeling. The second it slides down my throat, I'm going to puke.

With my mouth still full, I pour out another glass of water and suck a load back before swallowing everything in one go. Then I keep swallowing, because the nausea is already creeping up my esophagus.

Cristiano frowns. "Are you okay?"

"Mm-hmm." I tap the base of my throat. "It's a little sour, that's all."

He cocks his head to one side. "That's funny. I thought coconut yogurt was sweet."

I purse my lips and push the offending dish to one side. Maybe I'll have better luck with the omelet.

The scent of truffle invades my nostrils, putting my eyeballs on the brink of watering. What the hell was I thinking? I take a deep breath and feed a morsel into my mouth. I'm pleasantly surprised. The taste of porcini is subtle, and the eggs are soft. I can do this. With a look of triumph, I feed more forkfuls into my mouth.

Cristiano sips his espresso and watches me with uncomfortable intensity. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was glued to a pornographic movie.

I'm about to cut another piece of omelet when my stomach groans. I'm full already. I look down to see I've barely eaten anything. Defeat makes my cutlery clatter against my plate.

Cristiano clears his throat. "You've finished?" There's a note of glee on the edge of his tongue.

I lift my chin. "No. I'm having a rest."

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You can't do it, can you? You can't eat any more."

"Yes, I can," I protest, but the conviction in my voice is weak.

He allows his lips to curve into a satisfied smile. It's the smile of a winner.

"You put up a good fight, Castellano." He reaches over and takes my plate. "Now let's leave the real battle to the big guns."

He winks playfully, and it's devastating .

I could watch him eat for days, so imagine my disappointment when only another six mouthfuls later, he's devoured not only the omelet, but the yogurt and the fruit cup too.

To his credit, he doesn't gloat any further, but he can't hide his smile behind his curled fist.

And neither can I.

I thank God when Penelope helps me into my dress, because my fingers are too clammy and shaky to do it myself. We're behind a thick velvet curtain, but I can feel Cristiano's presence as though he's standing inches away breathing hot air onto my neck.

"Have you been starving yourself, Miss Castellano?" she hisses, my lack of appetite clearly an inconvenience to her. "I've never had to take a dress in so many sizes. This is going to be double the work."

"Then Savero will pay double for your time." Cristiano's voice sails over the top of the curtain, and the blood drains from the seamstress's cheeks.

"I apologize, Mr. Di Santo." Her fingertips fumble with the pins. "My surprise got the better of me."

"Let me see the dress."

His instruction makes us both jerk our heads up.

"Um, Mr. Di Santo, I believe that may be bad luck," Penelope responds, with wide eyes fixed on me.

"It's only bad luck if it's the groom who sees the dress. I am not the groom."

If I didn't know better, I'd detect a trace of bitterness on the edge of his tongue. As it stands, I've amused Cristiano enough throughout breakfast to know he's more than likely relieved to not be marrying me.

Penelope continues to stare at me until I realize she's asking if I'm okay to do this. I nod once, and she lets the gown fall to its full length. She walks around me, nipping and tucking the edges into all the right places, until it looks like I was born wearing the beautiful garment. Then she stands to one side and pulls back the curtain.

I have my back to Cristiano, but I can see his reflection in the floor-length mirror. He's sitting on the black velvet couch, his knees spread and his elbows resting on them. When the curtain pulls back, his expression is stunned.

Then, as he takes in the backless dress, the waist dipping low toward my buttocks, the skirt clinging to my hips and my thighs before floating outward in a graceful fishtail, his gaze darkens, a treasonous glint drawing in the light.

I've seen those eyes before.

He held them over me right before he slammed his fist into his kitchen island.

I move my focus back to the bodice of my dress and concentrate on counting the glass beads and pearls—anything to avoid the rolling thunder in his eyes.

"Is it to your liking, Mr. Di Santo?" Penelope asks nervously.

I listen to the beat of my heart.

B-bum, b-bum, b-bum.

Then he answers.

"It's exquisite."

My stomach liquifies, and I lift my gaze to meet his. His stare is no longer indifferent. It's frighteningly possessive, and I have to look away. I stroke my hands down my hips, distracting myself with the beautiful finish and the craftsmanship.

"Is everything okay, Mr. Di Santo?" Penelope asks.

I look over my shoulder to see Cristiano's back disappearing in the direction of the exit.

"I have to make a call," he replies without looking around. Then he yanks open the door and leaves.

My stomach drops. That look in his eye ...

How will I ever be able to face Savero on our wedding night, let alone our wedding day, when all I'll be able to see is the way Cristiano stares at me with eyes as black as a starless sky?