Page 90 of Shadows of Steel

Instead, he exhales through his nose, jaw locked so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding. Finally, he releases me.

A slow, victorious smirk curves my lips as I step aside, leaving Dante seething in silence.

Mario is leaning against the wall nearby, smirking. Leonardo stands beside him, watching the exchange with barely contained amusement.

Mario grins. “You look exquisite, Harlow.”

Dante’s head snaps toward him, eyes murderous. “Don’t fucking compliment my wife.”

Leonardo chuckles. “I was going to say the same, but now I fear for my life.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You both look good yourselves.”

Dante’s glare sharpens as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. His voice drops. “You think I won’t ruin you simply because you’re my wife?”

A delicious shiver runs down my spine, but I keep my expression composed. As I brush past him, my voice remainssmooth, laced with defiance. “And you think you have that much control over me?”

His low chuckle follows me as we step outside.

Before we reach the car, Mattia comes running toward us, cheeks flushed, his small frame practically vibrating with excitement.

He skids to a stop, looking up at me, then down at my dress. His face turns bright red. “Uh… you look nice.”

I suppress a smile. “Only nice?”

His ears turn red. “Uh… very nice.”

Dante grunts. “Watch it.”

Mattia grins cheekily. “Bianca is baking cookies for me,” he announces proudly.

I place a hand over my heart. “I’m jealous. I wish I could stay here with you and have a movie night instead of going to this boring party.”

Mattia brightens, laughing. Before I can move, he suddenly throws his arms around me, hugging me tight.

For a moment, I stiffen. Then, slowly, I place a hand on his back, returning the hug.

When we pull away, everyone is watching us. Something in their expressions softens, but it’s gone before I can make sense of it.

***

The ride to the event is swept in silence, the only constant being Dante’s hand resting possessively on my thigh, a silent declaration of ownership. By the time we arrive, a hush falls over the room as we step inside. All eyes turn toward us.

Dante pulls me closer, his grip firm.

He does not take kindly to others admiring what belongs to him. I suppress a smirk, relishing in his silent, simmering jealousy. Let him seethe.

The event is predictably tedious, a carefully curated display of wealth and influence draped in silk and diamonds. As we navigate the room, a parade of women intercepts me, their voices saccharine as they prattle on about charities, exclusive soirées, and whatever else high society pretends to hold in great esteem.

Dante is engrossed in conversation, speaking in low tones with men who thrive on power and influence.

Seizing the opportunity, I lean in slightly. “I’m going to the powder room.”

His gaze sharpens instantly, dark eyes assessing me. For a moment, he looks as though he might object, but before he can, another man draws his attention, forcing him back into the discussion. With an irritated sigh, he flicks his fingers, silently instructing Mario to follow.

I turn, striding toward the restroom, he and a few guards trailing at a discreet yet inescapable distance.

Inside, I take a moment, washing my hands as I exhale slowly, centring myself. Then, the sharp click of heels shatters the silence. I glance up at the mirror, and my stomach knots.