“I’ve been worried sick.” He nuzzled his nose against mine brazenly. This was more physical contact than we’d had since we were born, and that—combined with my hunger strike—sent my head spinning in a dozen different directions.
I nodded but didn’t say anything.
“You haven’t been good at picking up the phone.” He clutched my hand that held my phone, squeezing it for emphasis.
“I’ve just recovered it for the first time since the masquerade,” I breathed.
“Why’d you do that?” Angelo asked, his body practically grinding over mine. Panic licked at my conscience. What if Angelo was touching me the way he’d never dared before because he had nothing to lose anymore? My father would never frown upon him for taking it too far—because he would never have to stand in front of Arthur Rossi and ask him for my hand.
I desperately wanted to explain everything about my sudden engagement. But I also knew that if my father couldn’t do anything about it, Angelo sure wouldn’t be able to help me, either. I didn’t want us to be star-crossed lovers, stealing moments and sneaking kisses. Drowning in forbidden love. I didn’t know much about my future husband, but I did know this—if I caused him a scandal, he’d retaliate and hurt those I loved. I didn’t mind taking his wrath, but Angelo didn’t deserve to be punished.
“Angelo.” I raked my hands over his chest. I’d never touched a man like this before. So openly. His pecs flexed under my fingertips, and he felt hot, even through the fabric of his suit.
“Tell me,” he probed.
I shook my head. “We fit.”
“We fit,” he countered. “He sucks.”
I laughed through the tears lodging in my throat.
“I want to kiss you so bad, goddess.” He grabbed the back of my neck—no longer nice and understanding and teasing—leaning down for the kill. He was trying to prove a point. A point I was already sold on.
“Then I suggest you do it right away because eighteen days from now, she will be a married woman, and I will have every right to break your fingers for touching her,” a dry, menacing voice grumbled behind Angelo.
Stunned, I slipped my hands from Angelo’s chest, my legs giving in from surprise. Angelo caught me by the waist, righting me. He snapped out of the dark lust blazing in his eyes, twisting to look at Wolfe. My future husband casually made his way to the men’s restroom, his swagger completely unperturbed by the affectionate display in front of him. He was much taller, broader, and darker than Angelo, not to mention nearly a decade older, dripping with the air and power of a force you shouldn’t cross. The authority he possessed was almost tangible. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from apologizing for the scene unfolding in front of him. I looked up instead of down, refusing to declare defeat.
Angelo looked straight at him.
“Senator Keaton,” he bit out.
Wolfe halted between the two entrances of the restrooms. I could feel his imperial body as he looked back and forth between us, assessing the situation with cool disinterest.
“I meant every word, Bandini,” Wolfe said huskily. “If you’d like to kiss my fiancée goodbye, tonight’s your chance to do it. In private. Next time I see you, I will not be so forgiving.”
With that, he brushed his fingertips over my engagement ring, a not-so-subtle reminder of whom I belonged to, sending a shockwave through my body. He disappeared behind the restroom door before I could catch my breath. I thought Angelo would run away the minute Wolfe gave him his back, but he didn’t.
Instead, he caged me against the mirror with his arms again, shaking his head.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why Emily?” I countered, raising my chin.
“You’re the only woman I know who’d bring Emily up right now.” He balled his fist, slamming it beside my head. I swallowed a gasp.
“I came with Bianchi because you are engaged to be married.” Angelo licked his lips, trying to gain control over his emotions. “And also because you made me look like an idiot. Everyone was expecting an engagement announcement would be made any month now. Every single asshole in The Outfit. And here you are, sitting across the room at the table with the secretary of state, in the arms of Wolfe Keaton, playing the dutiful fiancée. I needed to save face. A face you walked all over with your pretty, seductive heels. Worst part, Francesca? You aren’t even telling me why.”
Because my father is weak and is being blackmailed.
But I knew I couldn’t say it. It would ruin my family, and as much as I despised my father right now, I couldn’t betray him.
Without realizing what I was doing, I held his cheeks in my hands, smiling through the tears that were running down my cheeks, chasing one another.
“You will always be my first love, Angelo. Always.”
His harsh breath came down on my face, warm and laced with sweet, musky wine.
“Kiss me right.” My voice shook around my request because the last time I’d been kissed—the only time I’d been kissed—was all wrong.
“I’ll kiss you the only way I can without giving you my heart, Francesca Rossi. The only way you deserve to be kissed.”
He leaned down, his lips pressing on the tip of my nose. I felt his body shuddering against mine with a sob that threatened to rip through his bones. All those years. All those tears. All the sleepless nights of anticipation. The countdowns of the weeks, and days, and minutes until we saw each other every summer. Playing too close to each other in the river. Fingers knotting under the table at restaurants. All those moments were wrapped inside that innocent kiss, and I wanted so badly to execute my masquerade plan that night. To slope my head up. To meet his lips with my own. But I also knew that I would not forgive myself for ruining this for him with Emily. I couldn’t tarnish the beginning of their relationship just because mine was doomed.
“Angelo.”
He covered my forehead with his. We both closed our eyes, savoring the bittersweet moment. Finally together, breathing the same air. Only to be forever torn apart.
“Maybe in the next life,” I said.
“No, goddess, definitely in this one.”
With that, he turned around and glided down the darkened hallway, allowing me a few more calming breaths before I stepped out of the alcove and faced the music. When my shaking subsided, I cleared my throat and marched toward my table.
With every step I took, I tried to convey more confidence. My smile was a little wider. My back a little straighter. When I spotted my table, I noticed Wolfe wasn’t there. My eyes began to search for him, a concoction of irritation and dread twirling in my stomach. We left things so awkwardly, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Part of me hoped—prayed—that he’d finally had enough of me, and that he called things off with my father.
The more I searched for his tall figure, the faster my heart thrust against my sternum.
Then I found him.
My future husband, Senator Wolfe Keaton, was skating past tables elegantly. Three feet behind him, Emily Bianchi ambled, tall and provocative, her hips swaying like a dangled, forbidden apple. Her hair blond and shiny—just like his date from the masquerade. No one had noticed how her cheeks were stained pink. How they put some distance between their footsteps but headed in the same direction.
Emily was the first to disappear behind the massive, silky black draperies, slipping from the ballroom without notice.
Wolfe stopped, shook hands with an old, wealthy-looking man, and struck easy conversation with him for at least ten minutes before taking a sidestep and resuming his journey to the back of the ballroom.
As if sensing my gaze on him, Wolfe turned his head toward mine, amidst the hundreds of people around us, and locked our eyes together. He winked, his lips unflinching, as his legs carried him to his destination.
My blood bubbled in my veins. When I was busy restraining my passion toward her date, Emily had been snagging my future husband for a quickie.
I stood there, fists balling beside my thighs. My heart pounded so loud, I thought it was going to burst across the floor and flip like a fish out of water.
Wolfe and Emily had betrayed us.
Disloyalty had a taste.
It was bitter.
It was sour.
It was even a little sweet.
Most of all, it taught me an important lesson—whatever the four of us had, it wasn’t sacred anymore. Our hearts were tarnished. Stained. And guilty.
Unpredictable to a fault.
And bound to break.