Page 29 of The Proposal

The nerve of that man.

If I could’ve summoned tiny lasers to come out of my eyeballs, they would’ve seared right into his handsome face.

I know exactly what happens when Mafia men go out to ‘celebrate’. Every time my father did that, he’d come home with lipstick stains on his collar and a strong scent of perfume clinging to him.

Like all his men, Papa had numerous women on the side. Mistresses … whores, whatever you want to call them. That is why my mother finally decided to leave. She’d had enough, and that decision cost her her life.

Infidelity is commonplace with the Cosa Nostra, and it is another reason why I never wanted to marry into this stupid, misogynistic world. If an Italian woman isn’t pure, she’s classed as tainted and unmarriageable. Yet, an Italian man can stick his dick in whoever he likes both before and after his marriage, and society seems to accept that. It’s so unfair.

Rolling onto my side, I punch my pillow in frustration. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours, too angry to sleep. At least I can be thankful I only kissed him and didn’t give away my virtue. That would’ve been a whole different kind of heartache.

I’m jolted out of a deep sleep when I hear a bang, followed by, “Shit!” I sit up, rub my eyes, and then squint when the room is suddenly flooded with light.

Dante is standing at the doorway and staggers slightly as he begins moving across the room. My eyes narrow as they follow him … he’s drunk.

When he pauses in front of the dresser, he shoves his hand into his pocket, removes the money clip, and tosses it on top. His watch is next, and even the smallest, mundane moves he makes are sexy.

“Did you have fun?” I snap, still pissed at him.

His head turns towards the bed, and his eyebrows pinch together when he finds it empty. That frown only deepens when his eyes move to the side, and he spots me on the floor.

“Why are you down there,Bellezza?” he asks.

“I was asleep … the floor is my bed, remember.”

“The fuck it is,” he barks, stalking across the room and closing the distance that separates us in a few long strides. “Did you not wake up in our bed this morning?”

He towers over me even when I’m standing, so I have to crane my neck to meet his heated gaze from down here. “Not by choice.”

“Get on the bed, Arabella,” he barks.

“Vaffanculo(Fuck off)!”

His eyebrows jump at my vulgarity. “You swore at me.”

“Big deal. I’ve heard you say worse.”

“Get on the bed,” he repeats, pointing in that direction to emphasise his words.

“No!”

He tilts his head back and groans, and that sudden movement causes his inebriated arse to stumble slightly. “Why are you always busting my balls?”

“I wouldn’t touch those filthy balls of yours if you paid me.”

“Filthy?”

“Yes.”

“I bathe daily.”

“You also fuck whores.”

That has him rearing back. “I’ve never had to pay for sex in my life.”

“Just because you didn’t pay for it doesn’t mean she wasn’t a whore. You have a wife! Only atroia(Whore) would sleep with another woman’s husband.”

His eyes sweep over my face, and I think the alcohol in his system is making what I said take a little longer to sink in. But he eventually holds out his hand in front of him with his palm facing forward and says, “Hold on a minute … is that where you think I’ve been? I told you I was going out with my men to celebrate.”

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