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“Don’t worry, I got what you like.”
At this point, I’d like an amputation. How can one man soak my hand with a kiss?
Freddie stares at a woman’s ass before looking back at me. “You look totally fuckable, tonight, Val.”
I press my lips together, acting as if I enjoy this absurd compliment. I don’t.
Would any women think this is romantic? No.
“Thank you.”
“Like, holy shit,” he gushes. “You’ve always been a little stuck up, y’know? Maybe it’s the deaf thing, maybe it’s the sheltered shit.” Freddie twirls his hand in the air, and I narrow my eyes. “But you’ve had this prissy ice queen persona. Tonight though, shit, you look hot. Super fucking hot. Worthy to be my wife, hot.”
Biting my tongue, I sip from my water, trying not to grab the knife on my lap. I can’t stab him—killing him wouldn’t solve anything. Roman would just marry me off to another guy, and I’d still be in this same situation.
But Dio, I want to murder him.
“Thank you,” I snap.
Leaning close, Freddie hovers in my face, startling me as I turn.
“One taste,” he says, smirking slightly. “We’re going to get married. One kiss won’t ruin the contract.”
Merda!
Seductively, I place one finger against his lips and breathe through my mouth. His aftershave is overpowering, and the bile in my throat burns.
“It might. I have to be completely pure for you.” I’ll avoid the fact that I am not—that my stalker took liberties with me that no one else ever has. And I let him.
Freddie nips my finger, and I cringe.
“One taste, Val—”
“Mr. Scipione,” Ello interrupts, materializing in front of our table. Freddie glares at my guard, and I slump, relieved. That was close.
“What?”
“You’re needed downstairs.” He gestures to the dance floor. “The restaurant just informed me. Something about missing messages on your cell.”
14
VALENTINA
Ello and Freddie leave me to my peace, and I take the opportunity to swipe a passing server’s tray of white wine. At their alarmed look, I jerk my head at the table I stole from.
“Add it to my bill.”
I’m not sure how long I have, so I chug it. The alcohol sears me, but it’s decently better than the champagne I drank months ago. When it’s empty, I pick up my phone and marvel at so many missed messages.
I scroll to the bottom and quietly hide my smile.
Stalker: Did he kiss you?
No.
Stalker: Look up.
I do and search the ceiling. There isn’t a man hiding in a mask, or a guy in a hoodie, but there is a blinking red light. A camera. He’s spying on me with another camera. This man has no morals about consequences or privacy. I look back at my phone as another text comes in.
