I grab an apple. “Get used to it.”
“Your parents didn’t raise you right, you spoiled, rotten girl.”
I take a bite. “They’d probably agree with you.”
“Do you know what they all say about you? The don’s relatives?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me all about it.”
“They say that once Don Messero gets tired of your body, he’ll toss you away and find himself a real lady for a wife.”
For some reason, that stings, even though I know better than to care about what people say about me.
“One can hope,” I mutter. Although, I’m not sure how he’s supposed to get tired of my body if I won’t let him touch me.
She scowls. “If I were you, I wouldn’t show my face in public. You’re a disgrace.”
“And you’re a miserable old hag. We all have our problems.”
She gasps and starts swearing at me, but I just walk away and go back to the bedroom. I don’t have time for her. I need to find my outfit for tonight.
The bloody sheets seem to have made no difference to how people perceive me. Maybe some suspected it was all a fraud.
Well, if they insist on calling me a whore, I’ll dress like one. The last thing I want anyone to think is that I give a fuck about their judgment.
I take off my clothes and select one of the couture dresses hanging in the closet. Calling it a dress is generous. It’s no more than some rhinestone fishnet material that leaves little to the imagination. Maybe it would be okay with some full-coverage underwear and a tank top, but instead, I grab a black lace panties and bra set from La Perla.
When I take in my reflection in the mirror, I know there is zero chance Rafaele will let me go out like this. But it’ll be worth trying just to see the look on his face.
Maybe he’ll finally snap and “find himself a real lady for a wife.”
Seven o’clock rolls around, and I totter out of the room in a pair of sky-high heels. From the top of the staircase, I see Rafaele lounging on the couch below, his phone in his hand. He got a haircut. He looks all neat and trimmed and fucking edible.
No, he doesn’t. You don’t find him attractive at all.
I take a deep breath and clutch the railing as I make my way down the steps.
His gaze snaps to me when I’m halfway down. I thought he’d look shocked, but the only visible reaction I spot is the slight narrowing of his eyes.
My steps slow. He’s going to tell me to go back upstairs and change, and I’d rather not do the full climb back up the steps in these heels.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he just goes right back to texting on his phone.
Heat creeps up my neck. Who is he texting that’s so important? Well, I can’t just hover here like an idiot. I take it step-by-step until I get to the bottom landing.
“Ready?” he asks when I stop in front of him.
“Yep.”
He stands, his body casting a shadow over mine, and gives me another distracted glance. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Suddenly, I’m worried this plan is going to backfire spectacularly.
He offers me his arm and leads me to the garage. There, he helps me into his Bugatti and takes the driver’s seat.
“Isn’t Sandro going to drive us?” I had assumed Sandro and Tiny would accompany us to the restaurant.
“It’s his night off,” Rafaele says as he starts up the car.
“We’re going to Il Caminetto, right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you an investor?”
“I am. The owner is a friend of mine.”
I eye him suspiciously. So there are definitely going to be people there that he knows. I can’t believe he’s letting me go out looking like this.
While his eyes are on the road, I glance down at myself. Indecent doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Nervously, I start chewing on my nail. The AC is on full blast, and it’s fucking cold. Why didn’t I have the foresight to at least bring a shawl with me? My nipples are rock hard, protruding through the lacy fabric of my bra. I shiver and rub my arms, praying we won’t be stuck in traffic, because I’m way too proud to ask Rafaele to turn the temperature up.
We park in what looks to be the back of the restaurant, and Rafaele helps me out of the car. There’s no one around us, but the muffled sound of music filters through the door. It sounds like a live jazz band.
He wraps an arm around my waist, his fingers pressing against bare skin. He must notice how stiff I am, because he asks, “Are you all right?”