This was my standard uniform for visiting my parents, and judging by the way Dante’s lips thinned, he was less than impressed.
A mix of unease and irritation twisted my stomach when those dark, unforgiving eyes found mine again.
We’d exchanged only a handful of words, yet I already knew two things with gut certainty.
One, Dante was going to be my fiancé.
Two, we might kill each other before we ever made it to the altar.
CHAPTER 3
Dante
“The wedding will take place in six months,” Francis said. “That’s enough time to plan a proper celebration without dragging things out too long. However, public announcements should go out right away.”
He smiled, showing no hint of the snake coiled beneath his genial tone and expression.
We’d adjourned to the dining room soon after my arrival, and the conversation had immediately veered into wedding planning territory.
Distaste curled through me. Of course he’d want the world to know his daughter was getting hitched to a Russo as soon as possible.
Men like Francis would do anything to increase their social standing, including finding the balls to blackmail me in my office two weeks ago, right on the heels of my grandfather’s death.
Fury reignited in my chest. If I had my way, he wouldn’t have left New York with his bones intact. Unfortunately, my hands were tied, metaphorically speaking, and until I found a way to untie them, I had to play nice.
For the most part.
“No, it won’t.” I wrapped my fingers around the stem of my wineglass and imagined it was Francis’s neck I was strangling instead. “No one will believe I’m marrying someone with such short notice unless something was wrong.”
For example, your daughter is pregnant, and this is a shotgun wedding. The insinuation had everyone shifting in their seats while I kept my face blank and my voice bored.
Restraint didn’t come naturally to me. If I didn’t like someone, I made damn sure they knew it, but extraordinary circumstances called for extraordinary measures.
Francis’s mouth thinned. “Then what would you suggest?”
“A year is a more reasonable timeframe.”
Never was better, but sadly, it wasn’t an option. A year would do. It was short enough that Francis would agree to it and long enough for me to find and destroy the blackmail evidence. Hopefully.
“Announcements should also go out later,” I said. “A month gives us time to craft a proper story, considering your daughter and I have never so much as been seen in public together before.”
“We don’t need a month to come up with a story,” he snapped.
Although arranged marriages were common in high society, the involved parties went to great lengths to conceal the true reason behind the nuptials. Acknowledging one’s family joined with another simply for status reasons was considered vulgar.
“Two weeks,” he said. “We’ll announce the weekend Vivian moves into your house.”
My jaw tensed. Beside me, Vivian stiffened, clearly caught off guard by the revelation she’d have to move in before the wedding.
It was one of Francis’s stipulations for keeping his mouth shut, and I was already dreading it. I hated people invading my personal space.
“I’m sure your family would like the announcements to go out sooner rather than later as well,” Francis continued, placing a soft emphasis on the word family. “Don’t you agree?”
I held his stare until he shifted and looked away.
“Two weeks it is.”
The announcement date didn’t matter. I’d simply wanted to make the planning as difficult for him as possible.
What mattered was the wedding date.
One year.
One year to destroy the photos and break the engagement. It would be a huge scandal, but my reputation could take the hit. The Laus’ couldn’t.
For the first time that night, I smiled.
Francis shifted again and cleared his throat. “Excellent. We’ll work together to draft—”
“I’ll draft it. Next.”
I ignored his glare and took another sip of merlot.
The conversation devolved into a mind-numbing rundown of guest invites, flowers, and a million other things I didn’t give a shit about.
Restless anger churned beneath my skin as I tuned Francis and his wife out.
Instead of working on the Santeri deal or relaxing at the Valhalla Club, I was stuck entertaining their bullshit on a Friday night.
Beside me, Vivian ate quietly, appearing lost in thought.
After several minutes of strained silence, she finally spoke. “How was your flight?”
“Fine.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to fly in when we could’ve met in New York. I know you must be busy.”
I cut a piece of veal and brought it to my mouth.
Vivian’s stare burned a hole in my cheek while I chewed leisurely.
“I also heard the more zeroes one has in their bank account, the fewer words they’re capable of speaking.” Her deceptively pleasant voice could’ve sliced through butter. “You’re proving the rumor correct.”
“I thought a society heiress like yourself would know better than to discuss money in polite company.”
“The keyword is polite.”
A ghost of a smile flickered over my mouth.
Under normal circumstances, I might’ve liked Vivian.
She was beautiful and surprisingly witty, with intelligent brown eyes and the type of naturally refined bone structure no amount of money could buy. But with her pearls and Chanel tweed, she looked like a carbon copy of her mother and every other uptight heiress who only cared about their social status.
Plus, she was Francis’s daughter. It wasn’t her fault she was born to the bastard, but I didn’t give a damn. No degree of beauty could erase that stain on her record.
“It’s not polite to speak to a guest that way,” I mocked softly. I reached for the salt. My sleeve grazed her arm, and she visibly tensed. “What would your parents say?”
I’d already clocked Vivian’s hangups less than an hour into our acquaintance. Perfectionism, non-confrontation, a desperate need for her parents’ approval.
Boring, boring, boring.
Her eyes narrowed. “They’d say guests should adhere to social niceties as much as the host, including making an effort to hold a polite conversation.”
“Yeah? Do social niceties include dressing like you stepped out of a Fifth Avenue Stepford Wives factory?” I flicked a gaze over her suit and pearls.
I didn’t give a shit if people like Cecelia wore such an outfit, but Vivian looked as out of place in the dowdy clothing as a diamond in a burlap sack. It pissed me off for no good reason.
“No, but they certainly don’t include ruining a nice dinner with discourtesy,” Vivian said coolly. “You should buy a nice set of manners to match your suit, Mr. Russo. As a luxury goods CEO, you know better than anyone how one ugly accessory can ruin an outfit.”
Another smile, still faint but more concrete.
Not so boring after all.
However, the embers of my amusement hissed into a smoky death when her mother inserted herself into our conversation.