Page 11 of The Proposal

When we reach the doors, he stops, but instead of entering, he pulls out the pristine white handkerchief from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

He shakes it out and lifts it towards my face, gently skimming it underneath my eyes. “I can’t have my wife facing all our guests looking like a panda bear,” he murmurs.

His wife.

As much as I despise that I’m now married to this man, his words still send a small, involuntary thrill through my body. If only my new husband were anyone but him.

His touch is unexpectedly tender … almost loving, which feels like a cruel contradiction to the ruthless Mafia Don I know him to be.

When he’s done, he balls up his handkerchief and shoves it into his trouser pocket. His eyes briefly flicker over my face. He’s too close … too damn close.

I purse my lips when he winces slightly, then mutters, “That will have to do.”

Stronzo(Arsehole).

He reaches for my hand, tightening his grip when I try to pull away. “If we have any chance of pulling this off, you’re going to need to smile, Arabella.”

Why does my name melt like silk on his tongue, every syllable softened and stretched by that easy Australian drawl?

“Pull what off? And stop calling me that.”

“Would you rather me call youBruttezza(Ugliness)?”

“No, but maybe I can start calling you that.”

That stupid grin on his face grows. “You and I both know that ugliness is the last word anyone would use to describe me.”

“Unless they were describing your heart.”

He barks out a deep laugh. “Fair call.”

“You never answered my question. What are we trying to pull off?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

What an idiotic reply. That’s something a child would say, not the head of theFamiglia(Family).

I let out a frustrated growl at his response, and he chuckles as his eyes gleam with amusement. This man knows how to push my buttons, and I can tell he enjoys it.

With a smirk, he opens the door to the ballroom and steps inside. I have no choice but to put my faith in him and follow.

He strides to the centre of the room with effortless confidence, the kind that draws eyes without trying. Reaching the nearest table, he picks up a wine glass and a piece of silverware, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

Lifting the crystal high, he taps the fork against its rim, clear, sharp notes ring out, slicing through the low hum of conversation until every head turns his way.

Once he has everyone’s attention, he sets down what he’s holding and takes my hand, lifting it to his mouth. I bite back a cringe as his lips press against my knuckles. He feels my repulsion, and his eyes sparkle with laughter as he clearly enjoys his effect on me.

When his gaze returns to our guests, he says, “My wife and I want to thank you all for coming today … it’s been a momentous occasion for us both, so we’ll be retiring to our room for the night.”

“Evvivi i sposi(Long live the newlyweds)!” everyone shouts.

Glasses are raised high as the room fills with cheers. I can’t help but feel the heaviness of this moment. Celebrating this union feels more like a trap than a triumph.

Some of our guests follow us out of the ballroom, so my hand remains clutched in Dante’s to keep up the pretence. I turn towards the small crowd and force out a smile. It’s barbaric that these people seem almost excited that I’m about to have my hymen obliterated by this ruthless monster.

My eyes briefly lock with my sister’s, and the look she gives me in return causes a lump to form in my throat. It’s one of worry and regret, the kind of understanding only sisters can share in a moment like this.

The knot in my stomach is so tight as we ascend the stairs that I genuinely feel like I might vomit.This is his plan?I thought following his lead would give me an out, not him an in.

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