Aria's POV
The mirror revealed a woman I barely recognized. My green eyes glared back, rimmed by smoky shadow that shaded them, rendered them enigmatic. My dark hair cascaded in loose waves over one shoulder, exposing the slender line of my neck. The dress...the dress was a masterpiece of calculated seduction. Black satin that glimmered like light in liquid waves, clinging to every curve before flowing on the floor in a fluid column. A thigh-high slit provided teasing hints of skin with each step, and the deep neckline dipped perilously low between my breasts, held in place only by clever sewing and brazen courage.
Diamonds glinted at my throat and ears...Milo's gifts of jealousy, now tools in my own arsenal against him. Irony was not lost on me.
I applied a final dash of scarlet to my lips, warning hue, deadly hue. Of blood.
"Beautiful," Milo's voice at the door was low and well-moderated. "And deadly."
I caught his gaze in the mirror—steel gray, watchful, never a detail overlooked. Seven years in prison had honed his predator instincts only. He was lethal in his tuxedo, formal wear unable to conceal the deadly power beneath. The jagged scar beneath his jaw, which he'd picked up in some prison fight he never spoke of, helped to add to his deadly charm.
"Ready?" I asked, stepping forward to meet him face-to-face.
His eyes moved slowly down my body, resting on the skin shown by my décolletage, the shape of my waist, the flash of thigh revealed through the slit. "That depends," he replied, low-voiced. "Are you going to be on your best behavior tonight?"
I flashed him a smile as cold as shattered glass. "Define 'behave.'"
Something reckless flashed in his eyes. "No sneaking off. No whispered conversations. You are where I can keep an eye on you."
"Jealous husband?" I muttered under my breath.
His hand slapped out, fingers closing around my wrist tight enough to sting, but still very definitely possessive. "Cautious," he insisted, pulling me close until I could feel his body heat. "I did seven years inside not to blow everything now."
I glared up at him, not even attempting to be afraid. "Then we ought to go. Don't want to be late."
---
The Bellucci Foundation Ball was a dazzling spectacle of pretension and opulence. Crystal chandeliers refracted rainbow light over the gathering of Milano's elite—politicians, businessmen, criminals who masqueraded as philanthropists. Strings floated above the background hum of conversation, champagne flowed freely, and beneath it all, undertows of power and menace rippled like unseen currents.
Milo's hand rested claimingly at the small of my back as we descended the dramatic staircase, the heat of it burning through the delicate satin of my gown.
I felt the weight of gazes upon us...some questioning, some reverent, some calculating.
The notorious Don Manheim, recently released from prison, and his mysterious new bride. We were the night's most intriguing spectacle.
"Keep in mind," Milo breathed in my ear, "tonight is not a matter of making impressions."
I nodded subtly, taking in the room. My mark was already in attendance—Vincent Caruso mingled by a pillar, champagne flute at his side, an entourage of fawning women waiting on his every word. His blonde locks shone in the light, his pleasant smile and engaged demeanor telling volumes of his personality. A people-pleaser. Ideal.
"I see Judge Caruso," Milo went on, his fingers tightening on my back. "I need to speak with him. Keep in view."
The warning in his voice was not to be ignored. I trailed behind him as he effortlessly parted the crowd and moved through them like a blade through water.
My moment had come. Deliberately, I selected a flute of champagne from an upcoming waiter and began to get around to making my way. Vincent's blue eyes—so bright, so innocent—already scanned me out. I could feel the moment his eyes were attracted to me, his eyes lingering on the curves outlined by my dress, the deliberate swing of my hips as I walked.
I stood nearby, pretending to be interested in an extremely flashy flower arrangement. I could glimpse Milo in the periphery of my eye, intently talking with a group of men across the room, his frame relaxed but vigilant. Marco, loyal shadow that he was, lingered nearby, black eyes constantly scanning for threats.
Timing was everything. I wanted Vincent alone, out of the eyes of witnesses, but didn't want to bring Milo's attention to him. I took a breath, shifting my stance so the slit in my dress dropped away to reveal a length of leg.
Vincent did as I had hoped and made an exit from his fans and moved towards me. His cologne reached me first—expensive but too overpowering, trying too hard to leave a mark.
"I believe we have not met," he said, his voice rich with the sound of European schools. "Vincent Caruso."
I swung around, playing along as though surprised, my lips curling into a tentative smile. "Aria Manheim," I told him, offering my hand.
His eyes shot up slightly at my last name, but his smile faltered not a single step. "Manheim? As in."
"My husband is over there," I nodded toward Milo, inserting just a touch of reluctance, of constraint into my tone.
Vincent's eyes darkened with interest—the excitement of the forbidden, the danger promised. "And he lets such a beautiful woman walk alone? Criminally negligent, in my opinion."
The irony of his use of words provoked me to laughter. I allowed a flash of vulnerability across my face instead. "It's.complicated."
"The best things usually are," he said, drawing closer than etiquette allowed. "Would you like another drink? Yours looks hardly touched."
I glanced down at my barely-touched champagne, then back to his waiting face. "Something stronger, perhaps?"
He grinned more broadly—a hunter who thought he'd netted his catch, unaware that he was the prey. "I know just what you're looking for. The east wing bar is not so crowded."
Deadly perfect. I nodded, but as I moved to follow him, I intentionally turned too hastily and elbowed his arm. My champagne flew across his sparkling white shirt, the liquid immediately making a bright ring that clung to his chest.
"Oh!" I cried, wide eyes in mock dismay. "I'm such a klutz! I'm so sorry!"
Vincent looked down at the spreading stain, but instead of irritation, his expression showed merely amusement. "No harm done," he assured me, dabbing futilely at wetness with a pocket handkerchief.
I moved in closer, my hand adding to his in the useless effort to dry the material. The action shifted my dress, the neckline dipping lower, exposing more of my décolletage. Vincent's eyes grew darker still, his attention clearly no longer on the champagne stain.
"Let me help repair it," I encouraged, voice dropping to a lower register. "There must be somewhere we can get this cleaned up."
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple rising and falling in his throat. "There's a private bathroom off the library. This way."
When I stepped ahead of him, to lead, my heel knowingly tangled in the train of my gown. I struggled forward with a small shriek of astonishment, leaning upon his breast. His arms reflexively enveloped me, pressing me back hard against his figure.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," I whispered, meeting his eyes behind lowered lids, making no particular effort to slip away. "These heels are impossible."
His arms tightened slightly, one hand hovering perilously close to the exposed skin of my back. "I've got you," he panted, his eyes wide with unambiguous hunger.
CHAPTER 5: Enraged
Aria's Pov
From where I rested in his arms, I could peer over his shoulder...directly into Milo's enraged glare across the room. The steel in his gaze had been replaced by granite, his jaw clenched so tightly it might break teeth. At this distance, the message was clear: deadly rage barely in check.
I needed to move quickly. "The bathroom?" I prompted Vincent, reluctantly pulling away but maintaining contact with my hand on his arm.
Before he could respond, I felt an iron grip on my shoulder, fingers digging into the sensitive junction of neck and collarbone. I was spun around with dizzying force, coming face to face with my husband's controlled fury.
"Excuse us," Milo said to Vincent, his voice soothingly level in the midst of the storm raging in his eyes. "I must speak with my wife."
He did not wait for permission but steered me away, his fingers wrapping around my upper arm like manacles. I nearly stumbled as I struggled to keep pace with his long strides as he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the interested glances and snatched comments that trailed behind us.
We passed through a double pair of doors, down a dark hall, and finally into what was clearly an unused study. No sooner had the door closed us in than Milo released me with such force that I bounced against the bookcase.
"What in the devil are you doing?" His voice was not raised but was worse than any scream could have been.
I stretched, smoothing my dress in careless nonchalance. "Socializing. Isn't this what these parties are for?"
"Socializing," he drawled, and the word had a flavor of contempt. "Is that what you've chosen to call throwing yourself on Vincent Caruso's mercy?"
"I tripped," I flashed back, setting my chin belligerently. "He caught me. Should I have fallen to the floor instead?"
Milo moved closer, pinning me back against the shelf of books. "You don't stumble. You strategize. Every step, every word, every breath—is all part of some game you're playing."
His body surrounded mine, the heat seeping through the smooth satin of my gown. His scent—sandalwood and spice, with something darker, more feral, underlying it—swirled around me, dissolving my senses.
"If I'm playing games," I whispered, "then perhaps it's because you leave me no choice."
His gaze narrowed, interpreting every micro-expression on my face. "What does Vincent Caruso have to do with your 'choices'? What are you planning?"
"Nothing," I protested, but even to my own ears, the denial was hollow.
"Liar," he panted, a hand coming up to cradle my jaw, thumb pressing against the pulse point of my heart where my heartbeat gave away my anger. "Your heart races when you lie, did you know that? A tiny tell, but unmistakable to someone who knows what to look for."
I tried to shift my face away, but his grip only tightened, holding me fast. "You're hurting me," I said to him, not exactly truthfully. His touch was firm but controlled, as always.
"No," he snapped, his eyes boring into mine. "I'm defending what belongs to me. Someone in my inner circle is betraying me, and tonight I intend to find out who."
A flash of genuine puzzlement had to have crossed my face, because his expression softened slightly.
"You really don't know, do you?" he breathed, almost to himself rather than to me. "Or you're a better actress than I gave you credit for."
"Know what?" I insisted, anger momentarily overpowering prudence. "You make these vague insinuations, and what am I supposed to have done?"
For a moment, doubt clouded his face—a momentary flash of vulnerability behind the mask of his control. Then it was followed by the calculating cold of the Don.
"Someone leaked information about a shipment coming in next week," he said, watching my reaction. "Very specific information known to only five people. You're one of them."
"And you'd risk everything to betray me?" I said, indignation coloring my voice. Whatever plans I had brewing against Milo were not about details of a spilled shipment.
"I think," he drawled, "that you married me for a reason, and that reason wasn't love."
His hand drifted from my jaw up to my throat, thumb tracing the rapid beat there with unnerving gentleness. "I believe you have secrets that would carry a death sentence if I were to discover them."
I trembled—half of it fear, half something murkier. "We all have secrets, Milo."
His pupils expanded to blackness, leaving only a thin rim of gray. "Then maybe it's time we started to trade them."
Before I had time to object, his mouth was crashing against mine—not a kiss but a seizure, an order, a chastisement. Inexplicably, my body responded like a stimulus, arching away from his hands as he snatched another clamped across my waist and hauled me forcefully against him.
When at last he released me, both of us gasped for breath, the stress between us moved over into something every bit as dangerous but vastly more complicated.
"Whatever game we're playing here at Caruso ends here," he snarled, his voice thick with hardly contained feeling. "You belong to me, Aria. Until death do us part. Don't forget it."
The assertion of ownership should have enraged me, should have doubled my resolve to shatter him. But all that moved me was turmoil—a clash of desire and intent, hate tangled up with something frightfully close to need.
"is that a threat?" I whispered.
His razor-sharp, predatory smile. "It's a vow. Now retouch your lipstick—we're going back out there, and you're remaining where I can see you for the rest of the night."
As he stepped back, clearing the way for me to collect myself, one thing became crystal clear: my task had just been made a thousand times more complicated. Lorenzo w
ould expect results. Milo would accept nothing less than absolute devotion.
And caught in between these two supernatural men, my own life hung in the balance.