Page 68 of Twisted Temptation

He lied to me.

He told me there would be no other women while we were married.

But Chantelle wasn’t here to vacuum and wash floors. She was here to polish something else entirely. My husband’s cock.

I stalk past the rack of dresses and into my bedroom.

He wants a wife tonight? Fine. He can have a wife.

But she won’t be the one he asked for.

She's going to be the one he deserves.

I walk into the walk-in closet, yank through the dresses Charles sent over the other day, and pull out the one I have in mind.

Then I pick up the phone and call Charles.

"I need boots," I say. "Thigh-high. Black. With heels tall enough to make a statement."

He pauses. "What kind of statement?"

"The kind that starts a war."

32

DANTE

She's late.

Fifteen fucking minutes late, to be precise.

I check my phone again.

Around the table, seventeen of my highest-ranking men sit in their chairs, drinking my wine and eating my food, pretending not to notice the empty seat beside me.

The table seats twenty. I'm at the head. John Marco is on my right. The empty chair is on my left, and it might as well have a spotlight on it.

These are not men who miss details.

Most of them are old school. Men who grew up with mafia tradition, who understand that a don's wife is not a decoration, she's a direct reflection of her husband’s life away from the syndicate. She tells the room whether his house is in order.

And right now, my house has an empty chair.

I take a sip of wine, then check my phone again.

Seventeen minutes late.

I text my driver, Deno. “Where the fuck is she?”

He had specific instructions to have her here at eight.

I had business on the other side of the city or else I would’ve brought her here myself.

"Relax," John Marco murmurs beside me. "She'll be here."

"I am relaxed."

"You've checked your phone three times in two minutes."