I would return to her after I finished talking to Giuseppe. For now, I could leave her in my father’s care. I glanced along the high table and noted some of her cousins seated farther down. She would have some familiar company in my absence.

Far from satisfied with the arrangement, I removed her hand from my arm and brushed a kiss over her knuckles, playing the part of besotted groom.

“I’ll be back soon.” It was a promise and a warning. Nora would behave herself in my absence, or she would have a very sore bottom in a few hours.

She blinked up at me vacantly and smiled.

My stomach turned, but I forced myself to release her. I wanted to shake her instead. I wanted her to tilt her imperious chin and tell me exactly what she thought of me, even if the words might sting a little. Anything was better than this vapid doll act.

If I’d broken her…

I couldn’t think about it. Not now. If forcing the birth control shot on her had hurt her so deeply, I would hold her and make up for it later, when we had some privacy. And if she was playing some kind of psychological game with me, she’d learn that I wouldn’t tolerate being manipulated. My wife would not hate me, and she would certainly not break because of me.

Giuseppe stood, his body slightly stiff from his arthritis. But he was still an imposing man, and meaner than ever in his advancing age. I left Nora, accompanying him as we strolled out of the ballroom and down the hall toward my father’s study.

When the door shut behind us, Giuseppe rounded on me. “You little shit.”

I strolled to the drinks cabinet and snagged the decanter, pouring a glass of whiskey for myself and then one for him. I held it out to him with my brows lifted, refusing to reply when he spewed insults.

His thin lips pulled back in a sneer, and he crossed his arms over his chest, denying my offering of civility. I shrugged and placed the glass back on the cabinet before sipping at my own drink, as though this was a casual meeting between old friends.

I settled down in a burgundy leather armchair and swirled the amber liquid in my glass. “I’m willing to forgive your betrayal,” I drawled, careful to keep the rage from my tone. Anger would make me appear weak, and if I succumbed to my hatred, I might attack the bastard. My loathing was far older than just a day; his sins against me ran deep, and I’d hated him for years.

“Your daughter is mine,” I continued, calm and reasonable. I always had careful control of my emotions, and that long practice served me well now. It was what would make me a good boss, a strong leader. I wouldn’t become erratic and unpredictable like Dante. Respect could be inspired by stability, not sadism.

My fingers clenched around my glass at the thought of Dante, my rival. The motherfucker.