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I nod, not bothering to ask how he knew.

“Congratulations,” he says, but the word carries no warmth.

“Don’t bother. It’s not a love match.”

His eyebrow raises slightly. “Arranged?”

“Something like that.”

He watches me over the rim of his glass. “We Italians certainly love our traditions.”

I laugh, the sound genuine for the first time tonight. “Says the man named Alessio.”

“Touché.” This time, his smile reaches his eyes, transforming his face from merely handsome to devastating. Something low in my body tightens in response.

The music changes, shifting to something slower, with a persistent beat that seems to match my pulse. Without asking, Alessio stands and extends his hand.

“Dance with me.”

It’s not a request.

I should say no. I should finish my drink and leave. Instead, I place my hand in his, feeling calluses that shouldn’t exist on a man wearing a watch that costs as much as a car.

He leads me to the dance floor, which is really just a small area near the DJ booth where a handful of couples move together. When he turns to face me, his hand slides to my lower back, pulling me closer than propriety would allow. Not close enough to cause a scene, but intimate enough to make my breath catch.

“I don’t usually dance with strangers,” I say, even as my body betrays me by fitting itself against his.

“We’re not strangers anymore, Chiara.” His breath ghosts across my ear. “You’re running. I’m... let’s say I’m between missions. And tonight, we’re just two people in a club.”

His hand is warm through the thin fabric of my dress. I can feel each finger pressing slightly against my spine, guiding me as we move to the music. Up close, I catch his scent—expensive cologne with undertones of something darker, more primal.

“What kind of missions?” I ask, already knowing he won’t give me a real answer.

His smile turns predatory. “The kind that would make you run from me, not toward me.”

Warning bells sound in my mind, but my body isn’t listening. If anything, the danger in his words only makes the heat building between us more intense.

“Maybe I like dangerous things,” I say, surprising myself with my boldness.

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my waist. “Be careful what you wish for,principessa.”

The endearment—the same as what my father calls me, yet entirely different in this man’s mouth—sends a shiver down my spine. I wonder if he can feel it, my skin prickling beneath his touch.

“Who says I’m wishing?” I tilt my head back to meet his gaze directly. “Maybe I’m taking.”

Something dark and hungry flashes across his face. In one smooth motion, he turns us so my back is against a shadowed wall, his body shielding me from the rest of the club. Not pinning me, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.

“Is that what tonight is, Chiara?” His voice has dropped lower, rougher. “Taking what you want before you surrender to your arranged marriage?”

The way he says it makes heat pool low in my belly. “And if it is?”

His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. “Then I’d say your fiancé is a very unlucky man, to have to force a woman like you into marriage.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “He’s not forcing me. My father is.”

Alessio’s jaw tightens. “Fathers,” he says, the word like a curse. “They have a way of controlling our lives, don’t they?”

There’s a story there, but I don’t ask. Tonight isn’t for sharing histories or truths.