Angelo looked straight at him.
“Senator Keaton,” he bit out.
Wolfe halted between the two entrances of the restrooms. I could feel his imperial body as he looked back and forth between us, assessing the situation with cool disinterest.
“I meant every word, Bandini,” Wolfe said huskily. “If you’d like to kiss my fiancée goodbye, tonight’s your chance to do it. In private. Next time I see you, I will not be so forgiving.”
With that, he brushed his fingertips over my engagement ring, a not-so-subtle reminder of whom I belonged to, sending a shockwave through my body. He disappeared behind the restroom door before I could catch my breath. I thought Angelo would run away the minute Wolfe gave him his back, but he didn’t.
Instead, he caged me against the mirror with his arms again, shaking his head.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why Emily?” I countered, raising my chin.
“You’re the only woman I know who’d bring Emily up right now.” He balled his fist, slamming it beside my head. I swallowed a gasp.
“I came with Bianchi because you are engaged to be married.” Angelo licked his lips, trying to gain control over his emotions. “And also because you made me look like an idiot. Everyone was expecting an engagement announcement would be made any month now. Every single asshole in The Outfit. And here you are, sitting across the room at the table with the secretary of state, in the arms of Wolfe Keaton, playing the dutiful fiancée. I needed to save face. A face you walked all over with your pretty, seductive heels. Worst part, Francesca? You aren’t even telling me why.”
Because my father is weak and is being blackmailed.
But I knew I couldn’t say it. It would ruin my family, and as much as I despised my father right now, I couldn’t betray him.
Without realizing what I was doing, I held his cheeks in my hands, smiling through the tears that were running down my cheeks, chasing one another.
“You will always be my first love, Angelo. Always.”
His harsh breath came down on my face, warm and laced with sweet, musky wine.
“Kiss me right.” My voice shook around my request because the last time I’d been kissed—the only time I’d been kissed—was all wrong.
“I’ll kiss you the only way I can without giving you my heart, Francesca Rossi. The only way you deserve to be kissed.”
He leaned down, his lips pressing on the tip of my nose. I felt his body shuddering against mine with a sob that threatened to rip through his bones. All those years. All those tears. All the sleepless nights of anticipation. The countdowns of the weeks, and days, and minutes until we saw each other every summer. Playing too close to each other in the river. Fingers knotting under the table at restaurants. All those moments were wrapped inside that innocent kiss, and I wanted so badly to execute my masquerade plan that night. To slope my head up. To meet his lips with my own. But I also knew that I would not forgive myself for ruining this for him with Emily. I couldn’t tarnish the beginning of their relationship just because mine was doomed.
“Angelo.”
He covered my forehead with his. We both closed our eyes, savoring the bittersweet moment. Finally together, breathing the same air. Only to be forever torn apart.
“Maybe in the next life,” I said.
“No, goddess, definitely in this one.”
With that, he turned around and glided down the darkened hallway, allowing me a few more calming breaths before I stepped out of the alcove and faced the music. When my shaking subsided, I cleared my throat and marched toward my table.
With every step I took, I tried to convey more confidence. My smile was a little wider. My back a little straighter. When I spotted my table, I noticed Wolfe wasn’t there. My eyes began to search for him, a concoction of irritation and dread twirling in my stomach. We left things so awkwardly, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Part of me hoped—prayed—that he’d finally had enough of me, and that he called things off with my father.
The more I searched for his tall figure, the faster my heart thrust against my sternum.
Then I found him.
My future husband, Senator Wolfe Keaton, was skating past tables elegantly. Three feet behind him, Emily Bianchi ambled, tall and provocative, her hips swaying like a dangled, forbidden apple. Her hair blond and shiny—just like his date from the masquerade. No one had noticed how her cheeks were stained pink. How they put some distance between their footsteps but headed in the same direction.
Emily was the first to disappear behind the massive, silky black draperies, slipping from the ballroom without notice.
Wolfe stopped, shook hands with an old, wealthy-looking man, and struck easy conversation with him for at least ten minutes before taking a sidestep and resuming his journey to the back of the ballroom.