Chapter 3

A week?!

It feels like all the air has been knocked out of my lungs. If I hadn’t been sitting, I probably would’ve collapsed. The words around me sound like they’re being spoken underwater, and it takes several seconds to process them.

“A w-w-week?” my brother sputters. “Why so soon?”

“We’ll have all the technology, domains, and legalities squared away by then,” Don Luciano replies, his tone clipped. “Then we can roll out the second phase of the project—where Rothschild’s Reads will play a key role. We’ll need your help identifying and signing authors, providing editing services, and handling all copyright work.”

“I should think you’d want some cash flow into your company as soon as possible.”

Through it all, my father just stands there. Silent. Staring at the floor. Waiting for it to be over.

There’s a knock at the door. Dante answers it and takes a bag of ice from someone on the other side. He walks over to me, kneels to my level, and takes my hand.

More gently than I would’ve thought him capable of, he places the ice against my skin. He doesn’t just hand it to me and walk away—he stays there, holding it in place.

For a second, it almost feels like an olive branch. Like maybe he wants to make the best of this nightmare too.

But he still doesn’t look at me.

Instead, he turns to his father. “Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to speak with my fiancée alone. Help us settle into our roles a bit easier.”

Don Luciano sends his son a warning glare. “Make sure you both understand the roles you’re meant to play, figlio (son).”

“Sì, padre (yes, Father),” Dante says, bowing his head slightly.

The Don leaves the room, followed closely by my father. Stefan hesitates, torn between his loyalty to me and his loyalty to the business.

“Stefan!” my father calls.

My brother sends me an apologetic wince, then follows the two most powerful men in the room out the door—leaving me to my fate.

The second the door clicks shut, Dante releases my hand like it’s burned him.

I barely manage to catch the ice before it hits the floor and glance up—only to be struck by the sheer intensity of hatred pouring from his eyes.

I flinch.

It feels like I’ve been slapped.

“Let’s get one thing straight before we start this marriage,” he says, venom dripping from every word. “I don’t want it. I’m not going to be the doting, loving husband you’ve probably dreamed about. I’ll only touch you in public or when you’re ovulating—until we give the old man an heir and a spare. We’ll live in the same house because we have to, but I’ll live my life how I damn well please.”

At first, I’d pulled back—stunned by the hatred in his voice. But now that the shock has worn off, I let every ounce of disgust I feel for him rise to the surface.

“Do you really think I want to marry you?” I hiss. “A trumped-up crook who’ll fuck anything with a twat and a decent rack?”

His eyes widen, clearly surprised—but I don’t give him a chance to recover.

I stand and throw the bag of ice to the floor. “Don’t do me any favors, Mr. Luciano. I want nothing to do with you. I’d be happy never seeing your smug face again. But it looks like my father already sold me to the devil, so now? Now my job is just to survive you.”

I move to step around him, heading for the door—but his hand closes around my wrist.

The opposite wrist.

The one my father didn’t bruise.

Before I can react, my back hits the wall and Dante crowds into my space.

And up close?

It’s impossible not to notice how gorgeous he is.

My hand, raised to keep distance between us, rests on solid muscle beneath his shirt. His coffee-brown eyes blaze with fury—and something else. Challenge. Amusement. Like he didn’t expect my fire, and now he’s curious.

His gaze drags over my face. He pins my wrist above my head with one hand. The other finds my waist.

If I hadn’t already made up my mind about him—hadn’t spent the last two hours watching him confirm every awful rumor I’d ever heard—I might’ve found this position... distracting.

Unfortunately, my body doesn’t know better. My nipples tighten. My panties dampen.

He smirks.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Well, aren’t you a bit of a firecracker?” he murmurs. “I think I might’ve liked you... if I wasn’t stuck with you.”

Then he pushes off me. The smirk vanishes, replaced by the cold, blank look he’d worn in front of our families.

He shrugs off his tuxedo jacket and holds it out. “Cover up that bruise. Can’t have people thinking I did that to you. Won’t help the optics at the start of this relationship.”

I take the jacket without a word.

And just like that, he walks out the door—without a backward glance.