Page 89 of Rosetti Family New York
“To late nights and bad decisions,” I say, knocking back the shot.
He grins and follows suit.
“You come here a lot?” he asks, his voice barely cutting through the noise.
“Used to,” I say. “Before I got married and boring.”
I try to ignore the twinge of guilt for being here. The thrill of being here anyway.
“Lucky guy,” he says, with the kind of easy sincerity that makes me feel reckless. He’s not threatening, and I could talk to him for hours and it wouldn’t matter. “So why are you drinking alone?”
“Am I alone?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
He laughs, and I see his guard drop. This isn’t what he expected either.
“Not anymore,” he says.
We drink, and I babble more than I should, about Dom and my father and the feeling of being trapped. About how fucking annoying men are and how much I’m enjoying defying them. He nods along, a good sport who just wants to keep me drinking.
Another round and my head spins in the best possible way. I think about Mami's song, and how music makes you feel evenif you don’t want to. I think about my father, who won’t let me fail. About Dom, who won’t let me breathe. And for a moment, I don’t care.
The door slams open, and cold air floods in. A man fills the frame, and everything stops. It’s Dom, and he’s furious, dark and looming and impossible to ignore. His eyes find me like a laser, and I know what’s coming.
He crosses the bar in five long strides, radiating possession.
“You’re coming home. Now,” he says, his voice low and controlled.
It’s the voice that makes grown men fear him, the voice that never yells because it doesn’t have to.
I look up at him, defiantly, feeling the liquor give me courage.
“Or what?” I taunt, a little more slurred than I’d like. “Going to punish me?”
The kid beside me slides off his stool and backs away. “Hey man, I didn’t know—”
Dom ignores him, his focus all on me.
“Besiana,” he warns, each syllable a threat and a promise.
“Nice to see you too, husband,” I say, lifting my drink in salute.
I feel free and wild and not ready to give up this feeling, not yet.
“Let’s go,” he says, the order so tight it could snap.
He grabs my arm, and his grip is firm, claiming.
I yank free, playing at control.
“I’ll go where I want, when I want,” I say. “Take your ring and shove it.”
His eyes flash, revealing the storm beneath his surface. He’s not used to disobedience. Especially not from me.
“You’re wearing my ring,” he says, each word sharp as glass. “Act like it.”
I feel the stares of the bar, and something in me loves it. The drama. The danger. The way I can get to him like this.
“You’re not the boss of me, Dom,” I say, shoving him back. I know how to hurt a man like him, and I do it. “I’m not scared of you.”
