Vows and Vendettas

Chapter 13

Blair

If my husband's behavior the other day wasn’t confusing enough, now I am downright baffled. For two weeks, I never heard from him. Not a text, not a single phone call, and now I can't even breathe without the scent of Dante’s cologne filling my senses, making my mind and body go soft and mushy.

And trust me, it's not in that ‘Oh, he was just in here,’ kind of way, so of course it smells like him. I mean the man hasn't left my side all week. How pissed would he be if I asked to swap him out with Rocco? Livid probably, and it would more than likely be a death sentence for poor Rocco.

I’ve woken up every morning with those molten honey brown eyes of his watching me from his side of the bed. I wouldn't call the look he gives me soft; maybe more along the lines of confusion. Like he is looking at something that he doesn't quite know what to do with, and he is just fumbling along as best he can. But those little glimpses of the man that hides beneath the Mafia exterior also confuse me.

But the truly baffling part of this entire situation for me is that I don’t necessarily hate having him here as much as I wish that I did. I've become used to his presence.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I drag my lipstick across my bottom lip. The deep crimson color spreads smoothly and pops against my tan skin. I do the same to my top lip, then check to make sure that there are no smudges before replacing the cap and setting the lipstick down. Leaning away from the mirror, the deep emerald green halter-style dress I chose for this evening fits snugly around my waist and hips. A pair of delicate gold earrings frame my face, while a matching thin gold necklace rests against my collarbone. A single teardrop diamond hangs from its center, the stone's surface catching in the overhead lights.

Tonight isn't just some outing with the man that I married. Tonight is the first dinner between my Papa and Dante. The first official outing that will showcase the connection between the Moretti family and the Lazzari’s.

No pressure at all.

I let out a deep breath as I reach for my handbag off the bathroom sink and head back into the bedroom. I come to a complete halt the second I opened the door, my feet refuse to budge from the doorway as my eyes land on the dark charcoal suit clad man across the room.

This is highly unfair. How is one supposed to focus on anything after looking at Dante Lazzari dressed for dinner?

The man is a masterpiece of superb genes.

My mouth goes so dry I swear I could swallow a handful of sand and call it hydration. We haven't had s*x again, but that hasn't stopped Dante from torturing me with the simplest of touches whenever he could. His hand at the base of my spine as he allows me to go first into the elevator. Or the way he brushes strands of my hair out of my face first thing in the morning.

My body has been in a hyper-aware state of him for days now and, from the way my f*cking core flutters at the clean lines of his body beneath his suit, it is all the indication that I need to know that tonight is going to be yet another test of my willpower. One that is already hanging on by a damn thread.

I drink in the sight of him from head to toe. From his shiny dress shoes to the way his dress pants mold around his upper thighs. The way his suit jacket draws in neatly at his waist before stretching out across his chest and arms. The watch around his wrist glints in the soft light of our bedroom as he lifts his hand, brushing his palm over the scruff along his jaw when his eyes land on me. His warm amber eyes darken to almost black as they drag down the length of my body, his tongue darting out and dragging across his bottom lip when his gaze stops for a half second at my red lips.

Okay, well, at least I am not the only one who has been having a hard time for the past couple of days.

From the way every muscle in his body draws taut like he is holding himself back, I would dare to say that he is pleased with what he sees. Now, why that notion causes butterflies to break forth in my stomach is something that I will have to overanalyze later.

“Are you ready?” Dante asks, his voice cracking at the end.

A tiny twinge of triumph fills my chest. I hadn't really been trying to impress him tonight, but seeing the way I look has clearly thrown him off the tiniest bit. And, honestly? It feels good to flip the table on him for a change. I let my lips part into a small, coy smile, watching as his gaze immediately drops back to my mouth.

“Is something wrong, husband?” I tease while crossing the room in his direction. "You look a little flustered.”

The soft click of my heels against the dark marble flooring is nowhere near loud enough to mask the sharp intake of air that comes from the King of Langston. His eyes track my every move until I am right in front of him. With far more resolve than I thought I possessed, I reach out and straighten his tie. It wasn’t crooked or anything, but seeing the way his breathing increases when my palm rests against his chest makes me want to keep it there.

Maybe just to torture him a bit longer.

Once the tie is perfectly straight, I meet his gaze through my lashes. “You look as though you are having a hard time catching your breath.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps. Once. Twice. “Careful, moglie,” Dante says as he lets his hand cover mine. The warmth of his palm seeps into the top of my hand. “You are playing a dangerous game. One that, if you continue, I promise, will not play out in your favor.” Wife.

Dropping my eyes to where his hand covers mine, I give a tiny, humorous laugh. “We will just have to see who comes out on top then, won't we?”

✦✦✦✦✦✦

Papa is already at the restaurant by the time that we arrive.

Bellavita is a family-owned and operated Italian restaurant that is nestled inside one of Papa’s casinos. Dark-tinted windows separate the intimate dining room of the restaurant from the flashing lights and constant noise of the casino floor. The familiar dark, mahogany host stand greets me as soon as I walk through the doors. The low, warm lighting casts a soft shadow across the deep burgundy upholstery, making it look darker than it is. And the rich scent of herbs fills the entire room, making my stomach rumble in anticipation.

“Figlia,” Papa exclaims as the host guides us through the rows of tables. Daughter.

He rises from his chair, rounds the corner of the table, and grips the top of my arms to pull me into a hug. I chuckle because Papa hasn't been this affectionate with me since I was a little girl. The sharp smell of smoke from his favorite cigars still clings to his clothing, and I breathe it in. I may not forgive him yet for upending my plans, but I realize just how much I've missed him over the past three weeks.

For the longest time it was just the two of us after Mama died. I was so young that those memories ended up fading, and now I can barely recall the sound of her voice. But Papa had always been there. Maybe a little overbearing at times, and a tad more controlling than needed.

My eyes burn as I fight to keep my emotions from spilling forth. With a shaky smile, I kiss each of his cheeks just as he does mine. “Hi, Papa.” My voice catches slightly, and I hope that neither one of them caught it.

Papa’s attention shifts from me to my husband. The smile on his face tightens as he gives Dante a brief nod of acknowledgment before returning to me. "Come tell me everything." Papa smiles as he helps guide me to one of the chairs next to him. "Is he treating you well?” Papa asks.

My eyes flicked up at him before he had even had a chance to take his own seat. Alright, straight to the point tonight. I reach across the plate in front of me for the glass of wine that has already been poured. I bring it to my lips and down the entire contents of the glass. Something tells me that I am going to need an entire bottle to make it through Papa's questioning.

I look at my father. Really look at him. He looks older than I remember. Like the last three weeks since I moved out of the house have aged him significantly. His eyes are a little duller, a little more sunken in than I remember. His skin also looks a little paler. How had I not noticed as soon as we walked in just how sickly he looked?

Honestly, his question takes me back. It's not what I expected for Papa to want to know. It's not like happy marriages in our world are the norm. Setting my wine glass back down on the crisp wire linen cloth, I turn to find my husband watching me over the rim of his wine glass. Dante raised his eyebrow at me in a silent challenge.

Tell him how well I treat you, wife.

I can practically hear the words as if he spoke them into my mind. That familiar lift to the corner of his mouth that says he finds my sudden silence amusing grates on my nerves. Our conversation before we left the penthouse came back to me, and I smiled sweetly at Dante while placing my hand on his upper thigh under the table.

“He treats me very well, Papa.” I deliberately let my voice drop to a soft, breathy tone. “Very well,” I add for good measure as I squeeze the hard muscle beneath my hand and grin in triumph when Dante's grip on his wine glass tightens, and his pupils blow wide, and hunger fills them.

I turned back to Papa with a bright smile on my face like nothing was remotely happening beneath the table between my husband and me.

“Good. That's all I wanted to know.” Papa sat back in his own chair, sighing as if the weight of the world had just been lifted off his shoulders.

“Blair seems to be settling into married life,” Dante offered, his accent thickening, but he makes no move to remove my hand from his thigh like I thought he might.

Oh, is that what he would call this? Settling? I'll show you settling. Slowly, I let my fingers inch higher up the inside of his leg, to where the fabric of his pants is already pulled taut. Well f*ck. My blood instantly heats up, and I am sure my cheeks are a shade of pink. Looking back over at Dante, his gaze drops briefly to where my hand disappears beneath the table before returning to mine. And he winks at me like he is daring me to keep it up.

Literally.

A part of me expected for Dante to stop me. To move my hand away, but he didn't. Instead, his fingers curl around my wrist beneath the table. His thumb settles against my pulse and strokes it gently, which sends it sky-high. My eyes flutter up to find him watching me over the rim of his own wine glass. And there is absolutely nothing that could be mistaken for innocent in his gaze.

Suddenly, I am not sure which one of us is winning this little game anymore.

“I know I was a little harsh with you that night, Figlia, but it was for your own good,” Papa adds just as the waiter arrives and passes out menus.

I attempt to remove my hand now, but Dante's grip is firm. He leans back in his seat just enough to make his hardness rub against the palm of my hand. Papa clears his throat, causing me to turn my attention back to him. It is at that particular moment that Dante's c*ck decides to twitch, causing a blush to pour into my cheeks.

"Ah, it's fine, Papa." I barely managed to reply as my husband began to stroke down the length of himself with my hand. "He's not so bad after all."

"Oh, is that so? It seems marriage is softening my reputation. Even in my own wife's eyes," Dante smirks as he leans forward while still holding my hand beneath the table. "It seems I might need to correct that."

Well, f*ck me, this is starting to get a bit out of hand, and I have no way of reeling it back in. Do I even really want to at this point?

“Excuse me,” Papa says suddenly as he places his now empty wine glass down. “I will be right back.” He practically jumps from his seat. A miracle considering how frail he looks right now. I watch him disappear down a hall that I presume leads to the restrooms.

"I think we might have broken him."

Finally, he lets my hand go, and I turn to face him fully. "What does that mean?"

Dante leans in closer, the faint scent of his cologne hitting me right in the face as I catch the little half smile that plays at the corner of his mouth. “He knows exactly where your hand has been, and the last thing he wants to imagine is all the unmentionable things that I will be doing to his little girl as soon as we walk out of the restaurant.”

“Is that so?” I said while popping my elbow on the table and placing my head in my hand. I can't help the way my heart skips several beats in anticipation. It's been days since he f*cked me, and as much as I would love to say I hadn't enjoyed what happened between us, that would be a lie.

“Yes,” he says as he leans away. His large hand runs up and down the length of his thigh, his gaze glued to mine.

I can feel my panties dampen just from the heat in his eyes. Suddenly, I don't care about being here any longer. We accomplished what we set out to do. To show all of Langston that the two most powerful families were now one. This evening started out with me pushing his buttons and tempting him, but now he is turning the tables on me. I press my thighs together, chasing any kind of friction.

“You look a little needy, moglie,” he says, lifting his chin and giving me a smile that stops my heart. “Want me to take care of it for you?”

It’s a simple question with an even simpler question.

Yes!