I regarded him coolly, the tightness from my conversation with Luca sinking beneath a well of distaste.
My great-grandfather had been one of the club’s twelve founding members. If I nominated someone for admission, they were guaranteed a spot, provided they met the basic eligibility criteria.
“Not any more or less than other members,” I said.
“Right.” Francis’s smile came alive like a shark sensing blood in the water. “I hear there’ll be an opening in the Boston chapter soon. Some nasty business with Peltzer’s bankruptcy.”
Ironic he should sound so gleeful about it when he would be in the same boat as Peltzer soon.
I couldn’t fucking wait. Until then…
“So I heard.” I tilted my head. “You were denied the last time you applied, no? Perhaps you’ll have better luck this time.”
Francis’s face darkened before relaxing into another smile. “I’m sure I will with your support. We’re practically family now, and family helps each other out. Don’t they?” He cast a meaningful look in Luca’s direction.
Rage clamped my jaw tight at his obvious threat.
Legacy Valhalla members were granted five nominations in their lifetime. I’d already used two—one for Christian, one for Dominic. I would rather cut off my dick than waste a third on Francis.
“I don’t have much insight into the Boston chapter.” It was only half a lie. I had connections there, but each chapter acted fairly independently in accordance with the local culture, politics, and traditions. “Valhalla’s membership committee is diligent in its selection process. If someone is worthy of being admitted, they’ll be admitted.”
Red splashed across Francis’s cheeks at my subtle dig.
“While I’m all for helping family…” My smile hardened into a warning. “They should know better than to push too hard. It never turns out well for the parties involved.”
Francis had enough balls to blackmail me but not enough to pretend he owned me. He was testing my breaking point to see how far he could take things.
Little did he know, he’d crossed it the minute he walked into my office and put those photos on my desk.
Before he could respond, Vivian returned, her cheeks noticeably more flushed than before. I wondered how many drinks she’d had with her friends.
“What did I miss?” she asked
“Your father and I were just discussing wedding logistics.” I didn’t take my eyes off Francis. “Isn’t that right?”
Resentment filled his eyes, but he didn’t dispute my account. “Right.”
Vivian’s eyes roved between us. She must’ve picked up on the underlying hostility because she quickly nudged her father toward Mode de Vie’s lifestyle columnist before pulling me aside.
“I don’t know what you were really talking about, but you shouldn’t provoke my father,” she said. “It’s like provoking a wounded tiger.”
A wisp of amusement cooled my anger. “I’m not scared of your father, mia cara. If he doesn’t like what I say, he can take it up with me himself.”
“Don’t call me that. Mia cara,” she clarified. “It’s insulting.”
I notched an eyebrow. “How so?”
“You don’t mean it.”
“People say things they don’t mean all the time.” I nodded at a silver-haired guest standing by the bar. “For example, your riveting conversation with Thomas Dreyer earlier. Don’t tell me you were actually interested in the minutiae of tax write-offs.”
“How did you hear…never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Vivian shook her head. “Look, I know this is business to you. You’re not high on my dream list of people to marry either, but it doesn’t change the fact we have to live with each other. We should at least try and make the most of the situation.”
What the fuck?
A rush of irritation ran down my spine. “Who, exactly, is on your dream list of people to marry?”
“Seriously?” Exasperation bled into her voice. “That’s your takeaway from what I just said?”
“How long is the list?”
It didn’t matter that I was forced into the engagement. My fiancée shouldn’t have a list of other men she’d rather marry. Period.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It sure as hell does.”
“I don’t—” Vivian’s sentence cut off when a drunken guest passed by and accidentally knocked into her.
She stumbled, and my hand instinctively shot out before she crashed into a nearby table of champagne.
We both froze, our eyes locked on where our bodies touched.
The surrounding noise dulled into a muted roar, overpowered by the heavy thuds of my heartbeat and the sudden hum of electricity in the air.
Even in heels, Vivian stood a full six inches shorter than me, and I could see the downward sweep of her lashes as her gaze honed in on where my fingers encircled her wrist.
It was so delicate I could’ve snapped it without trying.
Her pulse quickened, tempting me to prolong my hold before I came to my senses and dropped her hand like it was a hot coal.
The spell splintered at the loss of contact, and the sounds from the rest of the party burst through the cracks until it shattered into nothing.
Vivian pulled back and rubbed her wrist, her cheeks pink.
“What I was trying to say before we got off track is, we should attempt to get along,” she said breathlessly. “Get to know each other. Maybe go on a date or two.”
Some of the earlier tension dissipated.
“Are you asking me out, mia cara?” A smile touched my lips at her glare.
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“Yes, you did.”
I was going to call her mia cara every chance I got.
Vivian closed her eyes and looked like she was praying for patience before she opened them again a few seconds later.
“Fine, let’s compromise. You can call me mia cara, sparingly, if you agree to the truce.”
“I wasn’t aware we were at war,” I drawled.