The Mafia's Virgin Queen

4

I pushed the disturbing image out of my mind before I lifted my chin. Stood.

Turned.

And all the air whooshed out of my lungs.

Thick black hair. Olive skin. A slightly crooked nose that enhanced rather than detracted from his ruggedly masculine charm.

My future husband was devastation poured into a suit. Not handsome by conventional means, but so powerful and compelling his presence swallowed every molecule of oxygen in the room like a black hole consuming a newborn star.

There were generically good-looking men, and there was him. And, unlike his voice, his face was eminently recognizable.

My heart sank beneath the weight of my shock.

Impossible. There was no way he was my arranged fiancé. This had to be a joke.

“Vivian.” My mother disguised her rebuke as my name.

Right. Dinner. Fiancée. Meeting.

I shook myself out of my stupor and summoned a strained but polite smile. “Vivian Lau. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I held out my hand.

A beat passed before he took it. Warm strength engulfed my palm and sent a jolt of electricity up my arm.

“So I gathered from the multiple times your mother said your name.” The laziness of his drawl played off the observation as a joke; the hardness of his eyes told me it was anything but. “Dante Russo. The pleasure is all mine.”

There was the mockery again, subtle but cutting. Dante Russo.

CEO of the Russo Group, Fortune 500 legend, and the man who’d created such a buzz at the Frederick Wildlife Trust gala three nights ago. He

wasn’t just an eligible bachelor; he was the bachelor. The elusive billionaire every woman wanted and no one could get.

He was thirty-six years old, famously married to his work, and up until now, showed no intention of giving up his bachelor lifestyle.

Why, then, would Dante Russo of all people agree to an arranged marriage?

“I would introduce myself by my net worth,” he said. “But it would be impolite to categorize you as a stranger given the purpose of tonight’s dinner.”

His smile didn’t contain an ounce of warmth.

My cheeks heated at the reminder he’d overheard my joke. It hadn’t been malicious, but discussing other people’s money was considered uncouth even though everyone secretly did it.

“That’s very considerate of you.” My cool reply masked my embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Mr. Russo. If I wanted to know your net worth, I could Google it. I’m sure the information is as readily available as the tales of your legendary charm.”

A glint sparked in his eyes, but he didn’t take my bait.

Instead, our gazes held for a charged moment before he slid his palm out of mine and swept a clinical, detached gaze over my body.

My hand tingled with warmth, but everywhere else, coolness touched my skin like the indifference of a god faced with a mortal.

I stiffened again beneath Dante’s scrutiny, suddenly hyperaware of my Cecelia Lau-approved tweed skirt suit, pearl studs, and low-heeled pumps. I’d even swapped out my favorite red lipstick in favor of the neutral color she preferred.

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, publicannouncements 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 s**t 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.”