[Dante’s POV]
Tonight's dinner with the Agostini family is smaller than the last—fewer players, higher stakes, and Antonio testing boundaries like an idiot who's forgotten how quickly I bury problems. He thinks my recent leniency with Castellano signals weakness. Stupido. I'm about to remind him why people don't test me twice.
But first, more entertaining business.
I buzz Enzo. "Deliver the package to Valentina. The black dress and what's inside. Both required tonight."
"Si, padrone." His tone suggests moral objections he's too smart to voice. Good. I don't pay him to judge my methods, just execute them.
An hour before departure, my study door opens without knocking. Only one person has that particular brand of audacity.
Valentina holds up scraps of black lace that technically qualify as lingerie if you're being extremely generous with definitions. Her expression is caught somewhere between outrage and reluctant amusement, which is exactly the reaction I was aiming for.
"Does this qualify as clothing?" She dangles the lingerie like evidence in a trial. "Because I'm pretty sure there's more fabric in a tissue."
I lean back, studying her. The dress is perfect—elegant, expensive, the kind that makes men reconsider their life choices and career paths.
But the lingerie is the real masterpiece. Barely there. Strategic placement of lace. Designed specifically to drive me completely insane while maintaining just enough plausible deniability in public settings.
"It qualifies as what you're wearing under your dress tonight."
"And if I refuse?" Her chin lifts, that stubborn defiance that makes me want to bend her over my desk.
"You won't refuse." I return my attention to papers, dismissing her.
She stares for a long moment, weighing options. Finally, she turns and walks out without another word. Brava ragazza. She's learning.
An hour later, she appears wearing the dress and—I'm hoping, Cristo Santo—the lingerie underneath. Black silk clings to every curve I've mapped. Her hair is up, exposing the neck I've marked.
"Ready?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Do I have a choice?" But there's heat in her eyes.
"You always have a choice, amore. You just keep making the interesting ones." Her annoyed smile suggests she agrees.
The car is waiting—privacy partition raised because I'm nothing if not prepared for questionable decisions. She slides in beside me, which is either strategic positioning or unconscious desire. I'm betting on the latter, considering how her body responds every time I'm near.
Five minutes into the drive, my hand finds her thigh. She shoots me a warning look that could freeze hell and possibly several circles beyond it.
"We're not alone," she hisses, glancing toward the partition like the driver might suddenly develop X-ray vision and a burning need to see his boss corrupting his escort.
I ignore the warning entirely. My fingers trail higher, slipping beneath silk, finding lace that's already damp. Perfetta. Her body is significantly more honest than her mouth, which says a lot considering how beautifully that mouth lies to me on a regular basis.
"Dante—" My name comes out strangled, caught somewhere between protest and plea.
"Quiet." I keep my expression perfectly neutral, watching the city blur past like I'm not currently sliding my fingers under lace that's doing absolutely nothing to hide her arousal. "We wouldn't want the driver to hear you. Think of his mental health."
She bites her lip hard, trying to stay silent. I take my time—circling, teasing. She's wet, getting wetter. The car hits a bump and she gasps, nails digging into leather.
I watch her struggle while I systematically dismantle her composure. Her breathing comes faster, pupils dilating. The flush spreads down her neck. She's getting close—I can feel it in how her body tenses, how her thighs shake against my hand.
Then I stop. Withdraw my hand. Straighten my cuffs like nothing happened.
"We've arrived." I smile at her murderous expression. "Bella, you look upset."
The look she gives me promises retribution involving sharp objects. Dio, I love her.
Dinner is torture. For her, anyway. I'm having a fantastic time.
Antonio drones on about shipping routes while I watch Valentina squirm. She can barely focus, too busy trying to ignore the ache I built. Her cheeks are flushed, breathing uneven.
Halfway through appetizers, she excuses herself. "Restroom," she murmurs, standing on unsteady legs.
I wait exactly two minutes—long enough to be subtle, short enough to make my intentions clear—then follow.
The bathroom is single occupancy, marble and gold, excess that screams money. She's leaning against the sink when I lock the door, breathing hard, knuckles white on the counter.
"You're an asshole," she says without turning.
"Won’t argue with that." I press against her back, hand finding her hip. "But you wore what I told you. You came to this dinner. You let me touch you in the car." My other hand slides up her thigh, pushing silk aside. "You want this as much as I do."
"Fuck you." But she's arching into my touch, breath hitching when my fingers find slick heat.
"Later." I pull her underwear down just far enough, freeing myself. "Right now, I'm fucking you."
I push inside in one smooth thrust and she bites back a sound that would carry beyond this bathroom. Her inner walls clench around me—tight, wet, perfect. I grip her hip hard enough to bruise, my other hand covering her mouth.
"Quiet, bella." I pull out and thrust back in, setting a rhythm that has her seeing stars. "Wouldn't want anyone to hear how wet you are. How perfectly you take my cock."
She whimpers against my palm, pushing back to meet each thrust. I can feel her getting close—wound so tight she's ready to shatter. I slide my hand down between her legs, finding her clit, circling with the same rhythm I'm fucking her.
"Come for me," I growl against her ear. "Right now. Let me feel it."
She breaks—body going rigid, inner walls clamping down so hard I nearly follow. I feel every pulse, every flutter, the wet heat of her release coating my cock. Only when she's boneless and gasping do I let myself finish, burying deep with a groan I barely muffle against her shoulder.
We stand there for a moment, both breathing hard. Then I carefully withdraw, fixing her dress while she steadies herself.
"You're insane," she says, but there's no real heat in it.
"And you're beautiful when you come." I press a kiss to her temple. "I'll leave first. Wait two minutes, fix your makeup. Can you walk?"
She shoots me a look. "I'm going to kill you someday."
"You can try, amore."
I return to the table, offering apologies about an important call. Antonio accepts without question because questioning Don Falcone's movements is how you become a cautionary tale.
Valentina returns three minutes later, composed except for flushed cheeks and how she deliberately avoids meeting my eyes. She makes it through dinner with admirable control, responding to Antonio's wife's small talk while I watch her squirm.
The drive home is silent. Loaded. She stares out the window, clearly plotting my demise in creative detail.
Later, in my bedroom, she strips off the dress and throws it at my head. "I'm going to kill you someday."
I catch it one-handed, smiling. "You can try, bella. You can try."
She launches herself at me and I catch her, both of us falling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter and heat that never quite goes away.
Cazzo. I'm completely, irrevocably screwed.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.