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“I’m a married man,” I say plainly.

I manage to shove his arm away from my throat this time and roll my shoulders.

“And I have zero interest in Arianna Sartorre.”

The darkness glints in his eyes again as he steps right into my personal space, then backs me against a tree and suddenly plants his hands on either side of me.

“Do you like this, Damiano?”

My brow arches. “Excuse me?”

“Does it feel good to be boxed in?”

A low chuckle escapes my throat as I gently push him away.

“Adrik, I’m going to say this once and only once.” I place a heavy hand on his shoulder and look him in the eye. “I have no interest in Arianna. Okay?” I draw in a heavy breath. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go home to my wife.”

Adrik’s gaze lingers on me another second or two.

“If Bella wanted you gone, you’d be gone, you know.”

I smile coldly at him. “Yeah, she's made that abundantly clear.”

He shrugs. “The fact that you haven’t been cut into pieces or dunked in acid tells me you’re doing something right.”

I chuckle quietly. “Let’s hope I keep the streak going.”

He nods as I turn to leave.

“Hey, Barone.”

I glance back.

“You owe me a rematch. A fair one.” He smirks. “Maybe next time, avoid any drinks your wife hands you?”

31

DAMIANO

“I kinda hate this, just FYI.”

I grin as the car winds up the hill, the 4.0 liter inline six engine purring as my hands glide over the curve of the steering wheel.

To be fair, I’ve been grinning ever since I got back into the driver's seat of my sweet baby, which I just got back today from the body shop that repainted it after sandblasting off Bella’s dick-doodles. But this particular grin is due to my passenger.

Bella is sitting in the shotgun seat of my Aston Martin, her arms folded over her chest, her shoulders tense and hunched. She’s got an adorable little scowl on her face that I can see even under the heavy blindfold wrapped around her eyes.

“What,” I tease her. “Being back in this car? Is it guilt? Are you feeling a crushing sense of remorse for desecrating this work of art? Fair. I would imagine those environmental protesters who throw paint or shit at a Vermeer feel the same way after they’re forced to think about⁠—”

“The blindfold, dick,” she mutters through a grin. “I hate the blindfold.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise without it.”

“You know that eyelids close, right?”

I briefly fix her with a look. “As well as I know that the chances of you keeping them shut if I asked you to is approximately zero percent.”

Her lips pull into a big grin.