My back is to him, and Settimo grabs my wrist. I spin and face him, my gaze darting between my hand and him.
“I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“You didn’t,” I deadpan.
“For the record,” he lets go of my wrist, “I don’t even know you, but I can tell you deserve a hell of a lot better than Paolo Romano. Plus, I think he’s gay.”
Really?
“Like you said, you don’t know me,” I say.
“I know enough.”
He leans back on his palms and lets the sunshine bathe his face, all while not taking his eyes off me. My feet itch to move, but he dangled his bait, and I’m too stubborn not to bite.
“Why do you think he’s gay?”
Settimo gives me a smug smile. “Just a feeling. You of all people should know what he’s into in the bedroom, though. I could be wrong.”
My cheeks heat. No, I don’t know what he’s like in the bedroom. We haven’t had sex. Come to think of it, he hasn’t shown much interest in me at all, other than the occasional hand on my lower back.
I’m assuming he’s expecting to “save me” for the wedding night, just like I’ve been doing since puberty. I’ve felt like a fucking fool every night since I found out I was going to be a pawn for my father. My virtue was something I held on to, something I cherished. I believed in true love and saving yourself and all that absolute bullshit they tell you about when you’re young and naive. It’s one of the only things I did that my father asked of me, and I was stupid enough to believe I was doing it for myself.
All it did was make me a target. A bigger triumph. A grandprize.
Thanks to me, I’m a better bargaining chip for my father.
I really wish I could hate the man.
“Is that a sensitive subject, too?” Settimo asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I blink and shake my head. “No. Just a boring topic, to tell you the truth.”
“That’s a shame. You look like the adventurous type.” He hops off the bench and stands in front of me. I was right. He towers over me.
His gaze lowers to my body again, and it responds as it did before. My core tingles and moisture dampens my panties. All with a look.
I can tell by the smirk that he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
And I don’t hate it.
The weed isn’t doing its job anymore. Not after all this talk about Paolo and all the thoughts swirling in my head. The anger, resentment, bitterness, they’re all back and seated, no intention of leaving.
My mind swirls and all I can think about is my wedding night, thirty-six days from now. That’s when I’ll give my virginity to a man who plucked me from a Russian drug dealer, all so he could dangle me from his arm like I’m a stuffed animal he won at a carnival. And he didn’t even need to give my father a cow or sheep or whatever the hell is given for dowries. No, it’s much simpler than that.
I’m a sign of good faith.
A gift from the Russians to the Italians.
An offering.
I’d rather give my virginity to the guy who lives under the overpass. Or anyone else. Fucking anyone.
Including Settimo.
Settimo brushes my hair over my shoulder and grazes my neck with his knuckles. I close my eyes and shudder.
I’m going to do it.