Page 23 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Absolutely not.” I push the stack of papers that comprise an extremely detailed prenup agreement across the desk so forcefully that the folder it resides in slides off the polished surface and lands in DeVille’s lap.

“You seem to be under the impression that these terms are negotiable,” he growls. “They are not.”

“The deal we made was that I’d marry you.

We did not discuss anything about me not being allowed to work at Naos.

Nor needing to accompany you to every single one of your fancy Italian events, or playing hostess during dinners for you and all your Cosa Nostra cronies.

And there was definitely no mention of having to live in your house! ”

Satan’s eyes bore into mine as he slowly rises from his executive chair. Gripping the folder in his hand, he rounds the desk and comes to stand right beside me.

“I don’t know how marriages work where you come from, and I don’t care.

” He sets the agreement in front of me again.

“I’ll be paying you a million dollars per month, and I’m going to see that you earn every single cent, Tara.

So yes, for the next year, you’re going to be the dutiful, docile, and modest wife who’ll act as is expected of her.

As is expected of her position… The spouse of the second-highest-ranked man in the New York Family. ”

“Oh, so you all treat your wives as if they’re your well-trained pets?” I snap the folder open and leaf through the pages listing all of this bastard’s requirements. “ Will not contradict her husband in front of Family members or other influential witnesses ,” I read out loud.

“We hold the trait of a supportive spouse in high regard.”

“You mean you expect blind obedience! And what about this? Do all Italians dictate how their wives should dress?” I point to the list of not-allowed items. “ Jeans or other casual or indecently revealing attire (athleisure wear and pajamas with bathrobe, in particular); see-through shirts and miniskirts that would be viewed as inappropriate at high-class functions. Unsuitable footwear, like sneakers and flip-flops, during social events. Improper hair accessories (specifically, hair curlers and towels). ”

“I don’t give a fuck how you dress in private, but in public, yes.

I expect you to look the part. So far, when we’ve gone out, you’ve worn the most ridiculously infelicitous things.

My guess is you’ve done it all simply to piss me off.

” He grabs the back of my chair and spins me around to face him.

His eyes almost glow with the anger blazing in their depths as he leans over, bringing our faces to the same level. “That stops right now, Tara.”

“Do you expect me to warm your bed every night, too?” I snarl. “Is that a requirement of being your wife? Since you’re paying me, you want me to be your whore?”

Arturo’s nostrils flare. He draws closer still until our faces are barely an inch apart, until we are practically sharing the same air. “ Warm my bed? Oh, I’m fairly certain that you would make it as glacial as the Arctic.”

Asshole! I lift my chin. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I choose to occupy another man’s bed instead?”

“As long as you’re discreet, I don’t fucking care.”

With my gaze locked on his, I grab the folder off the desk and slam it against his chest. “I want my own room, maybe Sienna’s old bedroom, since she told me she liked it. And I want the payment section revised. The full amount due is to be deposited into my bank account. No cash.”

His expression morphs into a mask of indifference as he continues to stare at me, but I don’t miss the slight twitching in his left eye. He’s got to be furious and trying not to lose his shit. Well, too fucking bad! Did he really expect to pay me with his dirty cash? I’m not that stupid.

He reaches into his pocket to take out his phone, then dials someone. I’m guessing his lawyer. DeVille’s eyes never leave mine as he speaks, asking for revisions to the prenup document.

“Done. I’ll get the updated version in a moment.” As he puts his phone away, a hint of a smile tugs a corner of his lips. “You did notice the clause specifying that if you don’t follow these rules, you won’t get anything, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I grumble. Jerk.

“Good. In that case, we can sign once it comes through.”

That barely-there curl of his lips turns into a full-blown smirk. A smug grin belonging to a man who is accustomed to winning his battles.

He must figure that the document, with its nearly ten-page attachment that outlines Satan’s demands for how I am to behave and appear as his wife, all so I can get paid at the dissolution of our marriage, will ensure he maintains his carefully crafted image within the New York Cosa Nostra.

That it will ensure his dear friends will never doubt his choice of a bride.

That I will measure up to their idiotic standards without question.

That I’ll present as perfect in every single way.

The problem with someone so egocentric is that, after a while, they get sucked into their own delusions. That “I’m always right” view they have of themselves blinds them to the truth. They won’t ever grasp the possibility of anyone below their social standing besting them at their own game.

Leaning back in the chair, I cross one knee over the other and my arms over my chest, letting a smile break across my lips.

I’m well aware that I’m entirely on the opposite end of the “perfect” spectrum.

But the one thing I am good at, where my strength truly lies, is finding the overlooked details.

I’ve had plenty of practice spotting inconsistencies and ambiguities in a written text.

And that prenup agreement of his has quite a few parameters that could be explored as potential loopholes that I’ve already noticed.

He wants to play dirty?

Game on.

“By all means. Get the pen ready,” I say with glee.

The revised prenup arrives just minutes later. His lawyer must have been hovering, waiting for DeVille’s call. As soon as the document comes off the printer, Satan approaches my side of the desk and slams the stack of papers in front of me.

“I almost forgot.” He pulls a small square red velvet box from his pocket. Then, he opens it and sets it on top of our prenup. “For you. Darling .”

A beautiful gold ring, with the most exquisite round emerald at the center, and flanked by several shining marquise-cut diamonds along the tapered band, lies on the silky cushion.

The brilliance of it is like a punch straight to my chest.

I stare at the pretty trinket that represents everything I’ve ever dreamed of. A promise of forever. Joy and happiness. A vow of endless love.

So many times I’ve imagined a day when the man I love would lower himself down on one knee.

Would pledge to cherish me. Protect me. Would ask me to be his wife.

Every fantasy I dreamed up was more romantic than the one before.

None included a pretentious asshole presenting an engagement ring on a stack of papers containing the terms for the end of our marriage.

Goddamned Arturo DeVille has managed to ruin even this special moment for me. It might have hurt less if he had buried a dagger in my heart.

“Let’s see if it fits,” Satan says, picking up the ring.

My soul weeps in despair as he takes my right hand, not my left. Wraps his warm palm around mine. It doesn’t matter that this marriage is a sham. Temporary. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!

The ring slides onto my finger as if it were meant to be mine.

The stupid jerk even knew that Serbs wear their rings on the opposite hand from the Western tradition. A small part of me hoped he’d screw up and place the ring on my left hand, just so the disappointment would remind me this isn’t real. But the bastard obviously did his research.

“Perfect.” My fiancé nods. “Do handle it with care. It was a custom order from Rome.”

Really?

In that case, I can’t wait to do the dishes with this damn rock on my hand.

Pulling my gaze from the glittering emerald, I look my future husband right in the eye. “I’ll do my best, darling .”

And I’ll do everything I can to make sure Satan rues the day he chose to marry me.

Something isn’t right.

I grab my laptop, pulling up my emails so I can do some work, but my eyes keep darting to Tara.

Ever since we got into the car, she’s been serenely curled up on her seat beside me, reading yet another of her books with a bare-chested dude on the cover.

Her face is lit by a pleased smile, and sparkles dance in her eyes.

The glint in those green depths almost matches the luster of the engagement ring on her finger. Almost.

What the hell was I thinking? Why did I drop a small fortune on that thing?

I knew she’d need a ring once we got officially engaged, but I figured I’d just get something locally.

Anything from Tiffany’s would have met societal expectations, so why did I end up making a request for a bespoke-designed ring from the most exclusive jeweler in Italy?

Why did I insist it should contain a natural Heirloom-grade emerald in the richest shade of green at its center?

Why not a diamond or a ruby? Christ. And why…

why do I feel nearly feverish with excitement seeing that rock on Tara’s hand? I need my head examined, that’s why.

Does she like it? She didn’t really say anything about it. I couldn’t read her expression either. She just seemed withdrawn. Maybe she was too distracted by our discussion over the prenup to appreciate the ring? Or maybe I should have waited for another time to give it to her?

That conversation wasn’t exactly easy, but I honestly expected more of an argument from her about the prenup. Not about the properties or assets she won’t be entitled to, but about the specifics of how she should act and dress that I insisted on including.