Page 61 of Pietro

I study my reflection. I really like myself tonight.

"Ready?" Vittoria squeezes my shoulder.

"No."

"Good. That means you understand what you're walking into."

The click of my heel on the floor is a sharp crack in the silence. Each step on the main staircase echoes in the foyer. Pietro waits at the bottom, adjusting his cufflinks. Black tuxedo tailored to perfection, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow taper to his waist. Power wrapped in Italian wool.

He looks up.

His hands freeze on his cufflinks. His control shatters for a heartbeat.

"Cazzo." The word escapes on an exhale.

I descend the last steps, hyperaware of his eyes tracking every movement. "Is that good or bad?"

"You know exactly what it is." He extends his hand, helping me down the final step. His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "Every man there will want you."

"I don't care about every man."

"No?" He pulls me closer. "Who do you care about?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we haven't said. Can't say.

"We should go." I pull back, but his grip tightens.

"Not yet." He produces a velvet box from his jacket. "You need these."

Diamond earrings. Teardrops that match the dress perfectly. "Pietro, no. The dress is already too much."

"The dress is the beginning." He removes one earring, his fingers brushing my ear as he fastens it. "Hold still."

He secures the second earring, his breath warm against my neck. "Perfect."

Liam appears in the doorway. "Car's ready, sir."

Pietro's hand finds the small of my back, skin meeting skin where the dress dips low. The touch brands me as surely as any mark.

"Don't leave my side tonight," he murmurs as we walk to the car. "Not for a second."

The Palmer House Hotel rises against Chicago's skyline, golden light spilling from its windows. Photographers cluster at the entrance, their flashes creating a constellation of light. Pietro's hand tightens on my waist.

"Smile," he says against my ear. "Look like you own the world."

"I can barely afford groceries."

"Tonight, you're with me. That makes you royalty."

We step from the car into chaos. Cameras flash. Voices call Pietro's name. He guides me through with practiced ease, his body shielding mine from the worst of the crush. The lobby opens into a ballroom that steals my breath.

Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors. Towering arrangements of white roses and orchids perfume the air. Women in designer gowns float past on the arms of men whose suits cost more than cars. An orchestra plays from an elevated stage, the music weaving through conversations in multiple languages.

"Breathe," Pietro murmurs.

"I'm trying."

"Mr. Sartori." A silver-haired man approaches, his wife draped in sapphires. "How wonderful to see you."