Page 207 of Untamed

I don’t move.

Don’t even blink.

“She grew up being told she’d marry power,” he continues. “That she’d sit at the head of a table one day beside a man whocommands fear. She’s not some pretty doll you can stick in a corner and forget.”

I drag my gaze away from the window and lock it on him.

His eyes meet mine without flinching.

“She’ll want the ring. The title. Your time. Yourbed. A Russo heir”

The air sharpens.

A slow heat curls through my chest, not from desire, but from rage.

Dante holds up his hands. “I’m just saying, if you think you can juggle both, keep Jordyn close while playing house with Giana, you’re not just lighting a fuse, you’re handing her the match.”

I lean forward, my voice like gravel. “I’m not juggling anything.”

He raises a brow. “No?”

I stare him down, jaw tight. “There is no fucking choice. Jordyn’s mine, and I would rather take a bullet than make her the other woman.”

The words leave me before I can stop them, before I can make them sound like anything other than a goddamn vow.

Dante nods slowly, almost like he’s been waiting to hear me say it out loud.

Then he leans back in his seat and mutters, “Then you better move fast, fratello… because if you don’t end this marriage before it starts, Giana won’t just come for the crown.” He pauses, gaze deadly serious.

“She’ll come for the girl.”

The mansion looks different tonight. A little too polished, too damnperfect.

Candles flicker in the sconces along the corridor, casting long shadows over the polished floors. The scent of citrus and warm woodsmoke lingers faintly in the air, mixing with the sharper, expensive spice of whatever cologne Enzo must’ve doused himself in. Everything has been ironed and polished, even the people.

Everyone I pass seems to be walking straighter, smiling tighter. Like they’ve all been told to play nice for the guests.

Guests I don’t know.

Not really.

All I’ve been told is that the Mancini’s are an old family. Important business contacts. Enzo and Bianca said it would be a “formal evening.” Which, in Russo code, meanspretend everything is normal while the ground shifts under your feet.

I smooth a hand down the side of my dress, deep emerald silk that clings tighter than I’m used to, the hem grazing my ankles, the neckline low enough to earn a second glance. Bianca insisted it brought out my eyes, but I’m not sure if I want my eyes seen tonight.

My heels echo softly against the floor as I approach the main dining room, nerves buzzing low and constant in my stomach. I still don’t know why I was invited. I’m not part of the business. I’m barely part of the family.

But when Bianca reached for my hand earlier, smiling too bright and saying,“You’re with us now,”I didn’t argue, I just nodded.

I pass one of the tall mirrors in the hallway and catch a glimpse of myself. I barely recognise the girl staring back. She looks older. Sharper. Like she’s preparing for something she doesn’t fully understand.

The heavy doors ahead are cracked open. Light and laughter spill through, soft piano music playing beneath it all, glasses clinking, silver on china, sophisticated and elegant.

I inhale once, deeply and then step through.

And the moment I do, the air changes. Like walking into a storm moments before it breaks.

The second I step through the doorway, a hush curls at the edge of the noise, too subtle to name, but I feel it. Like the room holds its breath.

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