The Filthy One

Well, that’s just my luck, isn’t it?

“On that note, I’m going to get my ass downstairs and into the hall before he can stop me.” She giggles and shrugs her shoulders. “Are you a hugger? Can I hug you? I’m a hugger, sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that. And never ask me again, I insist you give all the hugs whenever you like. Okay?”

My cheeks hurt so much already from smiling for the last couple hours with Lina. Despite all the money and privilege, I think Petal would like her.

Lina basically attacks me, wrapping her arms all the way around me. She’s a little shorter than I am, and I hold her as hard as she’s holding me—anything less would be pretty shitty and Petal would have my ass for lack of effort. I feel like I need this as much as Lina.

Not going to allow my thoughts to go down that route though, tonight is about putting on that all-important mask I wear so well, and maybe a little bit of penis chocolate.

“See you downstairs, I have to wait until your brother summons me.”

“Okay, I’ll see you down there.” She claps her hands together, her excitement not quite as infectious as I’d like, before air kissing both of my cheeks and exiting the room the way she’d entered earlier; like a whirlwind.

Any other time, I would completely defy Marco’s orders and head downstairs without waiting for him, but there are going to be a lot of people here and I need to be what Marco is paying for.

Ten minutes later, Marco enters the room, and holy mother of all hot men, a tux looks good on him.

He stands in the doorway for a moment, his eyes caressing my body; from my toes, up my one exposed thigh, over my chest and landing on my face. His gray eyes seem to swirl with desire, which makes me smile internally—okay, externally too—before he nods once and his jaw seems to harden.

“Bene. Let’s go, Dolcezza.” He turns and holds out his elbow for me to take, and I do, allowing him to lead me from the room and down the staircase.

Mr. Talkative remains silent the whole way, pausing briefly to adjust his jacket by the hall doors, which are currently being manned by some heavy-looking security guys.

“Best behavior tonight,” is all he says as he nods for one of the men to open the door for him to make his grand entrance.

“Sir, yes sir.”

He responds to that with a growl, moving my hold on his arm so that our hands are clasped together as we walk in. I plaster on my smile, ready to greet the masses.

CHAPTER TWELVE

RIVER

The hall is beautiful, a touch of the old-fashioned mixed with the modern, gold and marble accents throughout the room. It’s decorated with Christmas trees, sparkling lights, and enough round tables to seat a hundred people. Each table has a different Christmas-themed centerpiece on a white tablecloth, and the people are all dressed in their finery. It’s a lavish event, no doubt a lot of posturing and business deals will happen this evening.

Christmas isn’t something my family and I usually celebrate in the traditional sense, Winter Solstice—also known as Yule—is our thing. And though I missed the beginning on the 21st, it lasts for twelve days, so as soon as all this Christmas faff with Marco is done with, I’ll be visiting my family for a few days. Luckily, it’s something I had written into our contract, because I’m positive Marco wouldn’t let me leave if I hadn’t. He’s had my schedule meticulously planned for the last few days, and I need a break from it already.

Several stuffy old men have come to greet Marco on our entrance, all the hand shaking and wishes for happy holidays given before we move onto the next. I smile politely, nod at the right moments, and say how wonderful it is to meet them.

The next couple we greet are obviously Marco’s parents. Mr. Mancini looks like an older version of Marco, a few more wrinkles and darker skin, his hair graying on the sides. He has kind, brown eyes, but I get dangerous vibes from him, like he could flip a switch any moment. Mrs. Mancini is like a vision in white. Her eyes are the same color as her children’s, a beautiful stormy gray, and she looks like the kind of lady that could tell a few stories.

Marco holds his mom by the shoulders and air kisses both of her cheeks before moving on to his dad.

Mrs. Mancini’s face drops as I come to stand in front of her, and it’s like she’s just a ghost or something. Her eyes glaze over as if she’s lost in a memory of the past.

“My God. It’s uncanny.” Mrs. Mancini air kisses my cheeks, and confuses the fuck out of me with her reactions. “Look, Alberto. Doesn’t she loo—?”

“Mamma, not now.” Marco kisses his mom on the cheek before grabbing me by the waist and practically dragging me away from them. I have so many questions, but this isn’t the time or place to ask them. I’ll just have to file them away for later, when I’m not trying to be the good little fiancé.

Lina and Vincenzo are at our table, and a few other serious-looking men I have no interest in getting to know. The meal goes well, and Lina is sitting next to me, thank fuck, because I’d be bored out of my mind otherwise. Marco’s hand never moves from my bare thigh, rubbing small circles with his thumb as he makes polite conversation with one of the men—I’m assuming some kind of boss to the others. Vincenzo is sitting next to Lina and he remains stoic as ever. I have yet to see him crack a smile. I’ll work on that, my own mini-mission to make Enzo smile.

The meal is delicious, I don’t remember ever having so much food. Fish for a Christmas eve dinner is unusual to say the least, but Lina told me it’s an Italian tradition. It’s surprisingly satisfying, although I’ll probably be hungry again in an hour. And now, the coffees are being brought out, and I have to stifle a giggle as Lina nudges me when she notices what the servers are carrying into the room—I may have mentioned my little coffee treat surprise to her, and she’s just as excited as me to see her brother’s reaction.

Small silver platters are placed on the tables containing cream, sugar, and the after-dinner mints. There are soft murmurs and the occasional stifled laugh as the platters are placed on tables around the room, and I smile to myself, enjoying the effect my own little stamp on the evening is having.

“What is this, Marco? Is this some kind of joke?” The grumpiest man at our table doesn’t seem happy about the penis chocolate… oh well, he’ll get over it.