The Mafia King's Temptation (Dante and Lucia) novel Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Piccola Peste

Lucia

The crystal chandeliers cast a sofi, golden glow over the now empty ballroom, their light catching on:

gon scanered champagne flutes and abandoned desert plates. My feet throbbed in my five inch Louboutin, and my cheeks ached from hours of manufactured smiles. The engagement party had been a resounding success – if success meant fooling three hundred of the city’s eline imo believing this farce of a romaner.

“A moment.an.“

Dante’s voice, smooth as aged whiskey, made me pane. I turned to find ham seching me with that maddeningly unreadable expression. He’d loosened his black silk tie slightly, the only concession to the long evening. Otherwise, he looked as perfectly pet together as he had hours ago every dark wave of hair in place, his custom Tom Ford suit sul crisp. Even the bruise from Antonio’s punch had faded, probably thanks to whatever inrack cream his anny of assesgasses had applied.

He reached to his jacket – midnight blue halian wool that probably cost more than most can- and pulled out two items a black American Expresscard that seemed to absorb the chandelier light, and a gleaming silver key

“Your card and house key,” he said, holding them out between two fingers like offerings. “The card has no lanit. The house staff experts you

“No limit! How grow of you to provide

ovide the tools of my own imprisonment

His lips winched and I caught a flash of gemine amusement in his dark eyes. “Careful, cara. Some might mistake that tone for ungratefulness.”

“Oh, I’m grateful.” I anarched both ems, a deliciously wicked idea forming. The weight of the metal in my palm felt like possibility. “In fact, I might just show my gratitude by maxing out the lovely card. Tomorrow All day. Every designer boutique in the city.”

“Die mio,” he muttered. “You’re going to be difficult about everything, aren’t you?” (

“Me? Difficult?” I batted my eyelashes with exaggeratril innocence, enjoying the way his jaw ticked. To just being the perfect fiancée, taking advantage of my future Island’s generosity, hit that what you want? A bemutiful accessory to complete your image!!

His eyes darkened to nearly black, and he took a step closer. The smell of his cologne. It is something expensive and masculine that I definitely hadn’t spent all night trying not to remember from our night together. “What I want resoro, b your cooperation. This is a crucial time for my campaign. Every photo, every public appearance manten.”

“So I’ve gathered from your fifty reminders about the ring I waggled my left hand where hus family’s heirloom diamond caught the light. The thing was a small fortune, a massive oval–cut stone surrounded by smaller diamonds, set in white gold that had probably adorned Romano women for generations. It weighed a ton and serramed Fold money‘ in the ment ostentatious way possible.

“Because it needs to be visible,” he said with exaggerated patience, like he was explaing something to a child. “Every time. No exceptions. No

convenient forgetfulness.”

“Si, si il mio padrone,” Imock bowed the talian filling naturally from my lips. “Any other commands for your employee? Should 1 curtsey when you enter a room? Kiss your ring perhaps?

He stepped even closer, his height forcing me to th my head back to maintain eye contact. The movement brought our bodies nearly touching, and I fought the urge to step back. I wouldn’t give him the saculetion. “You’re not my employer. Lucia”

“No‘ Could have fooled me with all the orders being barked.”

“We’re partners.” His voice dropped lower, sending unwanted shivers down my spine. “Business partners, as you so carefully specified in the

contract

“Then start treating me like one. I lifted my chin, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity or the heat radiating from his body. Partners respect each other. Dante. Especially when that partner happens to be a beautiful, bold balian woman who doesn’t appreciate being managed like some junior associate in your empire.”

“Moving trucks will be at your place at nine tomorrow

“Ah yes, my relocation to Chau Romano. Or should I call it what it is -a prison with better fukure? I twirled the key between my fingers. Let me guess–lors of dark wood and leathert Very masculine. Probably a trophy room where you display your conquesti broken hearts!”

His jaw ticked again. I was starting to enjoy causing that reaction. “You’ll see for yourself tomorrow”

“Can’t wait.” I turned to leave, then passed unable to resist one last dig. “Oh, and Danie? Fair warning–I want kidding about the shopping spree. Since you’re being so generous.

“Piccola peste,” he muttered in Italian Little

pest

“Takes one to know one, caro,” I shot back in the same language, enjoying his surprised look. Let him remember I was every bit as fluers in our mother tongue as he was

The drive home was a blur of city lights and tumbling thoughts. My own bedroom, when I finally reached it, felt like a sanctuary and a time capsule all at once. Eighteen years of memories surrounded me–dance recital trophies, academic awards, photos of family vacations before Mama got sick. The soft lavender walls I’d insisted on painting myself when I was fifteen. The window seat where I used to read for hours, dreaming of a love like the oises in my books.

I ran my fingers over my dresser, touching each framed photo like a goodbye. Me and Elina at graduation. Funily Christmas two years ago, all of us

Chapterd – Piccola Poste

wearing ridiculous sweaters. The day I opened my foundation’s first youth center. Papa looking so proud it hurt

That’s when I saw it. The photo I’d meant to take down years ago but could never quite bring myself to remove.

Mark and me at Mari Point bench, caught in a candid moment as I tumed to laugh at something he’d said. His camera had exptured the exact

my hair wild in the wind, his eyes crinkled with joy, both of us young and in love and so tembly naive. Before family expectations and social obligations tore us apart. Before I learned that love wasn’t enough in our world.

serand

My fingers trembled as I opened my prop. Before I could stop myself, I was typing his came into Google.

The results made my chest right. Mark Sullivan Photography – now a name in the art world, Gallery shows in New York, Paris, London. Features in prestigious imagazines. Critical acclaim for his “ras emotional honesty” and “mflinching eye. Everything he’d dreamed of when we were together. when family had dismissed him as just another struggling artist who wasn’t good enough for their daughter.

My thumb hovered over his Instagram icon Just one look. I told myself just to see..

His feed was exactly when you’d export from a successful artist moody black and white street scenes, behind–the–scenes glimpses of gallery openings, artistic selfies in interesting locations. His following had exploded, each post gamering thousands of likes and admiring comments.