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Her black dress hugs her curves, hair spilling dark over her shoulders, green eyes flashing like a storm breaking. My chest tightens, want and fury twisting into a knot. She sees me, and her stance shifts, chin high, ready for a fight.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Enzo? And why the fuck did you let Luis go without informing me first?” she snaps, her voice hard, but there’s a tremor, a shadow in her gaze that hooks me.
“What? No greeting? No thank you?”
Those green eyes turned on me has my chest tightening. God, how I've missed her.
“Cut the shit. What are you doing here?”
I clench my jaw. “You’re my wife,” I say, voice hard, mirroring hers. I close the distance between us until her scent, jasmine and heat, floods me. “You belong with me.”
Her laugh is sharp and bitter, slicing through the air. “Belong? You don’t own me, Mancini. Go back to your whores.”
The words sting, but it’s her eyes—bright, too bright—that stop me. Something is wrong. It's not sadness at her father's plight that I see, it's something else. I'm so attuned to her that I immediately know if something's wrong.
“Don’t play games, Fina,” I growl, my hand grazing her arm. Her warmth is a spark that jolts me. “Something’s wrong. I see it. What is it?”
She yanks free, stepping into my space, her voice rising fiercely. “You see nothing! You think you can storm in, demand I follow? Fuck you, Enzo. Who the hell do you think you are?” Her defiance is a fire; those overly bright eyes, like she's trying to hold back tears, makes my gut churns with unease.
“Your husband,” I counter.
“Go away, Enzo.”
“You’re coming home,” I say, my voice a low snarl, my hand gripping her wrist, firm but careful. She twists free, her eyes blazing, her breath hot.
“Home? To what? Your cold bed, your cold heart? This marriage is a deal, nothing more!”
Her words cut, but I’m not backing down. “A deal that makes you mine,” I snap, my voice rough, stepping closer, our bodies inches apart. I'm done being patient. “Stop fighting me, Fina.”
She laughs, a wild, angry sound, her hands fisting at her sides. “Fighting’s all we know! You want me to bend, to be your little wife? I’m a Rossi, you bastard!”
Her fire’s a drug, but the slight crack in her voice stops me cold. That earlier unease resurfaces. “What’s got you like this?” I demand, my voice softer, more urgent. “Tell me, damn it.”
Before she can answer, a maid’s voice cuts through, soft but clear. “Mr. Rossi wants to see you, Mr. Mancini.” Ah. So, my presence is known by all and sundry.
Fina’s jaw tightens, her eyes a dare, as if she's daring me to go if I can. What's the harm in going to see my father-in-law? I nod, following the maid, but not before I see Fina’s trembling hands. Something is definitely wrong, and I'll be damned if I let her hide it from me.
Domenico’s study is a dark vault, the same room where I first saw Fina, my wife. This random shuffle with her title between ‘my wife' and ‘Fina’ has me confused.
He’s at his desk, sitting with his shoulders held high. But I don't fail to notice how frail he looks or how his shoulders are slightly slumped. His thinning gray hair stands out in a face etched with sickness. Pity stirs, a sharp pang I don’t show. He’s Domenico Rossi, a titan, even now, and I respect his strength, his cunning, though we’re enemies bound by this uneasy peace.
“Enzo,” he says, voice like gravel, his gray eyes sharp, distrustful. “You’re bold, coming here.”
I keep my face blank, my voice even. “Came for my wife, Domenico.” On second thought, I add, “I wish you a quick recovery, though.” His lips twist in a faint sneer. “Fina’s no prize to be claimed, Mancini. She’s my daughter. She's a Rossi.”
The words are a jab, a reminder of our truce’s fragility. I nod, my throat tight. “I know who she is. She’s my wife.”
His gaze holds mine, heavy with warning. “Tread carefully. This peace is thin.”
I feel the weight of his words, the respect I can’t deny, even as I hate his control over her. “Understood,” I say, voice hard.
I start for the door, and before I can turn the knob, his voice stops me short. I look back to see his eyes baring into me. “For Luis, grazie.” He looks as if to say something else, but he turns and waves me out.
Domenico’s dismissal hangs heavy in the air, his warning about Fina still ringing in my ears as I step out of his study, the door closing with a soft thud behind me. The villa’s shadows cling to the marble walls, the scent of wax and old leather thick, like the weight of the Rossi name itself. I’m restless, my blood still simmering from the exchange with my wife's father.
The sounds of my boots are muted on the floor as I head back to the hall, my mind fixed on her. Fina. My wife, my fire, the woman who’s been tearing me apart for weeks. I need to see her, to drag her back to where she belongs, whether she fights meor not. This marriage may be a deal to keep the peace, but she’s mine, and I’m done with the distance between us.
I find her where I left her, standing in the grand hall, the soft glow of a chandelier casting prisms across her black dress, which clings to her curves like a lover’s touch. Her eyes though dampened by whatever’s eating her blazes with a fury that could burn this villa to ash, and me alongside it. She’s a warrior, unyielding, her stance rigid as if she’s braced for battle. The sight of her stirs something deep, a mix of want and rage that tightens my chest. She's mine.