Chapter 4: *****

"Walk," Damiano said, his palm slamming flat against the small of my bare back.

The fabric of the black silk dress was so thin it felt like ice against my skin. It clung to every single curve, the back cut entirely open down to my waist, leaving me feeling exposed under the harsh, blinding lights of the grand ballroom.

"Don't push me," I snapped under my breath, my heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor.

"Then keep your feet moving," he murmured back, his grip tightening. His hand felt like a burning iron weight on my skin, his fingers digging in just enough to remind me exactly who was in control. "Smile, Valentina. The press is watching."

"Let them watch," I hissed, keeping my eyes locked straight ahead.

The room was absolutely packed. Hundreds of people in expensive tuxedos and glittering gowns stood in clusters, their conversations a loud, overlapping roar that made my ears ring. Heavy-set security guards with earpieces stood at every single exit, their arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd. Every few seconds, a bright flash from a photographer’s camera blinded me, forcing me to blink back tears of frustration.

"Is this your regular crowd?" I asked, my voice dripping with venom as we approached the raised wooden stage at the front of the room. "A bunch of criminals in expensive suits?"

"These are the people who run this city," Damiano replied, his voice completely smooth, unaffected by my anger. "And by tomorrow morning, every single one of them will know your name."

"I hope they know I hate your guts," I said.

"They won't care," he said, guiding me up the three carpeted steps onto the stage. "And neither do I."

A heavy metal microphone stand stood in the center of the platform. The moment Damiano stepped up to it, the loud chatter in the ballroom began to die down. It started at the front and rippled back until the entire space went completely quiet. All eyes turned to us. I could feel the weight of their stares, the judgment, the curiosity.

Damiano reached out, gripped the microphone, and pulled me flush against his side. His arm wrapped completely around my waist, dragging my hips hard against his thigh. I stiffened, my breath catching in my throat at the sudden intimacy, but his grip was unyielding.

"Good evening, everyone," Damiano’s deep baritone boomed through the speakers, echoing off the high ceilings. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

A few older men in the front row nodded respectfully. Nobody smiled. The atmosphere in the room felt thick, heavy with unsaid rules and hidden dangers.

"I brought you here tonight to make an official announcement," Damiano continued, his voice steady and full of absolute authority. He turned his head slightly, looking down at me. The look in his eyes wasn't affection. It wasn't even pride. It was the condescending, arrogant look of a man who had just acquired a new luxury toy and wanted to show it off to his rivals. "This is Valentina Rossi. And as of tonight, she is my future wife."

The crowd erupted into a mix of sharp gasps and sudden, frantic whispering.

"She’s a Rossi?" a woman in the second row whispered loudly to her husband. "Since when do they mix with—"

"Quiet," the husband snapped back, his eyes darting to Damiano.

Damiano’s grip on my waist tightened further, his fingers pressing hard into my flesh as if warning me to keep my mouth shut. He looked down at me again, that small, wicked, mocking smirk playing on his lips. He thought he had won. He thought because he had my dad in a basement and my signature on a piece of paper, he had completely broken me. He looked at me like I was nothing but an object he owned.

The humiliation boiled in my chest, hot and violent. The anger wiped out every ounce of fear left in my body.

"You think you own me?" I whispered, my voice too low for the microphone to catch.

"I know I do," Damiano murmured back, his eyes glittering with cold amusement. "Play your part, Valentina."

"Here's my part," I said.

I didn't think about the consequences. I didn't think about the guards, the contract, or the hundreds of people watching. I just reacted.

I wrenched my waist out of his grip with a violent twist. I planted my heels, twisted my entire upper body back to gain momentum, and brought my right hand forward with everything I had.

My open palm connected squarely with Damiano’s left cheek.

The sound was deafening. Because we were standing right next to the microphone stand, the sharp, brutal smack of my hand hitting his face caught the audio feed, amplifying the noise and sending a loud, echoing boom through every single speaker in the grand ballroom.

My palm stung instantly, a sharp, burning heat radiating up my wrist, but I didn't care. I stood there, my chest heaving, my chin held high, staring at him.

The entire room went completely, utterly dead silent.

You could have dropped a pin on the marble floor and heard it clear across the room. The whispering stopped instantly. The camera flashes ceased. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

The sharp, metallic sounds of weapons being cocked echoed from every corner of the stage. Within two seconds, six different security guards had stepped forward, their heavy black pistols drawn and aimed directly at my chest. Their faces were grim, their fingers resting taut against the triggers. One wrong move, and they would put a bullet right through my heart.

I didn't look at them. I kept my eyes locked on Damiano.

His head was turned completely to the side from the sheer force of the impact. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck looked like taut steel cables. A dark red mark in the perfect shape of my fingers was already rising rapidly against his pale skin.

For five agonizing seconds, he didn't move. He just stood there, his profile rigid, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

Slowly revoltingly slowly he turned his head back to face me.

His black eyes weren't empty anymore. They were dark, dangerous, and alive with an intense, terrifying heat. He didn't yell. He didn't signal his guards to shoot. Instead, he raised his long fingers, slowly touching the reddening skin of his cheek, feeling the burn I had left there.

He looked at his fingers, then looked back up at me.

A slow, wicked, terrifying laugh left his lips. It was a low, rough sound that vibrated in his chest, filling the dead silence of the ballroom.

"You really are a wild one," Damiano whispered, stepping directly into my space until the heat of his body was overwhelming, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a promise of pure retribution. "Let's see if you can handle what comes next.”