~07~

Dante's pov~

I hate dress shopping. Always have. It's pointless — another show to make Nico Russo feel important. But Carmela insisted I come, so I did. Maybe just to remind her I'm not the kind of man who gives her what she wants for free.

Now we're in the back of the car. Black leather seats, tinted windows, city lights bleeding through the glass. Carmela sits next to me, her hands folded tight in her lap, like she's trying to hold herself together. She looks good in the dress she picked. She'd look good in anything. Or nothing. That thought annoys me more than I care to admit.

I keep my eyes on the window. I've got one arm stretched behind her on the seat — not because I want to touch her, but because I won't sit here stiff like a boy scared of his fiancée.

Her perfume hits me in waves every time she shifts. Vanilla. Sweet. Soft. Doesn't fit her mouth or her attitude at all. Maybe that's the point.

We've been quiet too long. She cracks first.

"Say something," she mutters, not looking at me.

I don't bother turning. "Like what?"

"Anything. You're making it weird."

I huff out a breath, not quite a laugh. "Pretty sure you do a good job of that on your own."

She shifts in her seat. The side of her leg presses against mine. She doesn't pull back. Neither do I. And like I'm some teenager again, my dick goes hard the second I feel how warm she is — stubborn body reminding me exactly what I shouldn't want.

There's a beat of silence. I swear I can hear her heartbeat in the small space between us.

"You could lie," she says. "Pretend you care. You're good at that, aren't you?"

I turn to look at her. She's glaring at the window like she'd rather jump out than be here with me.

"You think I'm lying?" I ask. My voice is low, steady. She doesn't flinch.

She shrugs one shoulder, all attitude. "About everything. About not caring. About not seeing me."

Her eyes flick to mine. They're dark, sharp, stubborn. Just like her old man — except Nico Russo never looked this good pressed into leather seats beside me.

I lean in, slow enough to see her chest rise. She smells sweet — warm vanilla under the cold AC, and for a second, I hate that I like it.

"You think I care?" I say, close enough to see the freckles on her collarbone.

She doesn't back down. Her chin lifts. "I think you hate that you do."

She's right. I hate that she's right. I should pull back. I don't. She's warm where her thigh brushes mine. I shift just enough that I feel it clearer — her warmth, my control. One of those is a lie.

"You're staring," she says, quieter now.

"So are you," I shoot back.

The car slows at a red light. For half a second I think about what'd happen if I leaned in and kissed her — right here, right now, just to prove we're both full of shit.

I don't. The light changes. The driver pulls forward. I sit back, my arm dropping to my side like I'm done with the game. I'm not.

Out of the corner of my eye I see her turn to the window. Her reflection flickers in the glass — calm, cool, untouchable. But her pulse at her neck gives her away. Fast. Alive. Same as mine.

I rub my thumb along my jaw, trying not to look at her lips again. I fail. I let out a quiet laugh — just one, under my breath. It's frustration, not amusement.

Neither of us says another word until the car slides through the Petrov gates. Nico Russo wants us wrapped in gold and smiles.

He has no idea he's marrying off his daughter to a man who might ruin her just to remind himself he can.

And Carmela? She'll ruin me right back.

*****

soo? what do we think. this is just the beginning of the spice!.🤫