Chapter 22 Chapter 22 – The Taste of Poison

Chapter 22 Chapter 22 – The Taste of Poison
Mya

I am magnificent. I hate it, but it’s true.

The black brocade is heavy and stiff, weighing me down like the truth of my marriage. It doesn’t feel like a dress. It feels like a custom-made cage, but it fits my fury perfectly. The diamonds around my throat and wrist are cold, beautiful shackles.

And beneath it all, I’m naked. Utterly exposed. I can feel the movement of the heavy fabric against my bare skin, a constant, abrasive reminder of Dante’s specific, calculated cruelty. No underwear. Nothing to hide the fact that I belong to him completely, inside and out. I desperately need a distraction from the fire between my legs.

The second I step away from him and walk across the ballroom, the atmosphere shifts. It’s not just the admiring glances from the men, which are indeed quickly stifled, confirming Dante’s reputation, it’s the way the women look at me.

I glide toward a cluster of wives and girlfriends, sensing that their cattiness will be far more illuminating than any pleasant conversation with the men. I manage a cool, polite smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. Part of me had been hoping I’d find an ally among them, but it’s clear from their expressions that I’m not being welcomed with open arms.

“Mrs. Cardello,” a woman with a severe blonde chignon says, her lips pulled into a thin smile. She introduces herself as Lena, Mrs. Falcone. Her voice is too sweet, like honey laced with arsenic.

The other women, daughters, fiancées, and wives of varying ages, offer strained, brittle smiles. The air surrounding us is thick with suspicion and resentment. I guess I’m too young, too new, too much not a mafia princess, and clearly, they hate me for it.

I refuse to let it get me down and make small talk about our hosts’ beautiful home, the unseasonably warm weather, and the utter banality of society life, all while my inner spy is at full alert.

I catch snippets of conversation in my periphery, not meant for my ears, but loud enough for me to hear.

“...I heard she’s a nobody. An accountant’s daughter. Where did he even find her? It’s too fast. Dante could have done so much better.”

“...I’m sure it’s just a business transaction. He’s trying to secure an heir, you know. He gets bored quickly, but this one looks like she might make him work for it. Stupid bitch doesn’t know what she’s missing out on.”

“...He’ll discard her like the rest. Dante doesn’t do relationships or fidelity. This so-called marriage won’t last. I hope he made her sign a pre-nup.”

I have to suppress a laugh at the last one. He certainly did make me sign something that gives him all the power.

Their jealousy is a tangible thing, a thick, poisonous fog I can almost taste. It makes me feel surprisingly powerful. I might be a captive, but to them, I am the Queen of the moment, holding the attention of the man they all secretly covet.

I smile genuinely for the first time, enjoying the sweet, dark taste of their envy.

I step away from them, circling the room. My back is aching from the constant, raw state of physical denial. Dante’s still deep in conversation with old man Falcone, his posture relaxed, his control absolute.

As I pass a secluded alcove draped in heavy red velvet, I overhear two men talking in low voices.

“Cardello’s wife is stunning. Young enough to be his daughter, eh? He always had a taste for the sensational.”

“Be careful, Leo. Dante is a territorial son of a bitch. He may not believe in monogamy, judging by how he treats everyone else’s partner like they’re single, but I’ve heard he’s very possessive of his wife. She must have a golden cunt or something.”

The pieces click into place. The envy of the wives. The whispers of me not knowing what I’m missing out on. Dante treating the women like they’re single. It can only mean one thing.

My stomach clenches with a sudden, ugly jolt that has nothing to do with fear. It’s a raw, immediate wave of something hot and bitter. Jealousy rises like bile in my throat.

I shouldn’t care about the women he used to fuck. He’s my captor, my jailer, the monster I despise. But the thought of his perfect, ruthless body being intimate with any of these simpering, envious women, pumping into them, allowing them to share his bed, sends a spike of irrational rage through me. Has he fucked any of them in the bed we share? I’ll throw it out in a heartbeat.

I stop pretending to mingle and walk straight toward the bar. Dante is standing there, looking like the only thing of value in a room full of counterfeits.

“I need to talk to you,” I say, my voice low and furious.

He raises a brow, a slow, elegant gesture of curiosity. He excuses himself from Falcone and turns his full, storm-blue focus onto me. “That was quick. Have you already find an escape route, Mya? Is this goodbye?”

Sarcastic asshole.

“No. I found your history.” I lean in, my voice tight with an emotion I refuse to acknowledge. “All these women here. The wives. The girlfriends. The mistresses. Have you slept with any of them?”

He stares at me for a long, quiet moment, his expression unreadable. Then a slow, deliberate smile curves his perfect lips, a look of predatory satisfaction that makes my stomach flip.

“Mya,” he says, his voice a low, throaty rumble, “I’ve fucked more than half the women in this room at one time or another. I assume you’re asking because you’re jealous?”

The words land like a physical blow. Heat rushes to my face, shame and fury twisting together. “I’m not jealous. I’m… assessing the contamination level. You’re even more vile than I assumed.”

He chuckles, a low, rich sound. His hand reaches out, settling on my waist. He squeezes once, a possessive, intimate gesture. “You’re jealous, darling. And it’s the most magnificent look you’ve worn yet.”

He pulls me close, lowering his mouth to my ear. “Don’t worry about my past. I never fucked any of them more than once. I was bored by the simplicity of the chase. I’m a one-woman man now, Mya. I keep my word. And that means I will be faithful to you, my tempestuous, fiery bride.”

Before I can process the terrifying warmth of his admission, a scent hits me. Cloying perfume and cheap desperation.

A stunning blonde woman in a red dress so short and tight she may as well have come naked, materializes out of the crowd and fastens herself onto Dante’s free arm.

“Dante, darling! You didn’t even say hello,” she purrs, squeezing his bicep and completely ignoring my existence.

“I heard you have a ball and chain now. Such a shame. I’m sure you won’t let that keep you from socializing freely. You know I’m always happy to receive you.”

Dante’s expression goes colder than I’ve ever seen it. He looks down at her hand clamped to his arm with the kind of disdain usually reserved for a cockroach.

He slowly and deliberately removes her fingers from his sleeve, peeling them away one by one as if they’re particularly nasty sticky tape.

“Sabrina,” he says, his voice cutting and precise. “Your attempts at public solicitation are tiring. Do us both a favor and find a less demanding hobby. I’m occupied. And will be for the rest of my life.”

The color drains from her face. He doesn’t wait for her retort. He smoothly shifts his attention to me, his hand once again coming to rest possessively on my bare back, fingers tracing the low line of the brocade.

“Mya,” he says, his voice warm, low, and utterly proprietary. “Allow me to introduce you to Sabrina. She’s... a relic. Sabrina, this is my wife, Mya. The only woman who’s ever been able to command my full attention.”

The quiet power of his words, the genuine note of possessive pride in his voice, hits me harder than any physical touch. Something tight in my chest crumbles.

I meet his eyes, the glacier blue now dark with a complicated mixture of lust and command.

“I think we should go home,” I whisper, my voice suddenly raw.

His hand tightens on my back. He ignores Sabrina entirely, his full focus now locked onto my face.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Mrs. Cardello?” he asks, his voice dangerously low, his eyes burning with triumphant certainty.

I pull my lips into a small, defiant smirk, though my legs are shaking. “Do you want to discuss semantics, Dante? Or would you prefer to take me home and fuck me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. A dark, feral grin finally breaks through his cold façade.

He turns, his movement sharp and absolute as he pushes me gently in front of him, ushering me toward the exit.

“Nico. Car. Now.”