Page 113 of Lovely Venom

“When you’re ready to surrender.”

She swallows, her voice softening at the edges. “Don’t hold your breath, Cristian.”

I press a kiss beneath the hollow of her ear. “We’ll see.”

“What are we doing here?” Chantel’s gaze drifts over the water, her expression shifting when she realizes we’re leaving the marina.

“Making a statement.”

She glances up at me in concern as we draw the attention of the crowd. “People aren’t going to like this.”

I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close as I murmur in her ear. “They can adjust.”

“Cristian—”

Her body stiffens as she takes in the gazes of the curious onlookers. She’s used to being treated poorly because it’s what Marco allowed. That ends now.

With enough witnesses I’m confident that word will spread fast, I tip her face toward mine. Her breath hitches as my thumb traces her jaw, and she holds my gaze so long, there can be no question where she belongs. Still, to be thorough, I brush my lips against her cheek with the intention of giving her a quick kiss. But when she shivers, I keep going—to the hollow below her ear and down her neck.

My name catches in her throat, reminding me we have an audience. Reluctantly, I turn my attention to the attendees of the Sterling’s yacht party, confirming we’ve captured their interest. I could think of at least fifty other things I’d rather be doing with Chantel right now, but tonight serves a purpose.

“This way, gattina.”

I keep Chantel close as we make our way through the crowd.

It doesn’t take long for her to notice the shift. Several women compliment her on her dress as we pass by, while others offer polite smiles.

“I don’t know if I should be offended or relieved,” she remarks. “Apparently, I’m acceptable company now that I’ve arrived with you.”

“Drink this.” I swipe a glass of champagne from a passing server. “You’re going to need it.”

Concern flickers in her eyes as she looks up at me. “What does that mean?”

“It’s nothing to worry about.”

There isn’t time for her to overanalyze it. A few associates and their wives stop us along the way, engaging us in conversation. While I discuss business, the women make their move, extending invitations to Chantel for various social events over the coming weeks.

In the world of Society wives, it’s an important distinction to lay claim to a friendship that will benefit them in some way. In this case, the benefit is not getting on the bad side of the Vitales.

Most of it is surface level, but I know at least one of them is genuine. Audrey Hawthorne is a relatively new addition to The Society, and she has little interest in playing social chess matches. She’s a former blackjack dealer Daniel Hawthorne met in Vegas on one of his business trips, and when he married her six months later, it seemed to be all anyone could talk about.

She’s weathered her own share of storms with this crowd, and she has a low tolerance for bullshit. I’m not surprised to see her and Chantel getting along well. They talk amongst themselves while Daniel asks if I’ve had a chance to review the projections on his hotel investment. We spend a few minutes discussing revenue forecasts, occupancy rates, and the expected timeline to profitability before I catch Chantel listening in with a curious expression.

I imagine she’s wondered what it is I actually do at my office. There’s a general assumption that acquisitions and investments is code for something more sinister. But despite rumors to the contrary, I don’t spend my days systematically destroying my enemies. I’m far more efficient than that.

In the Cosa Nostra, every business has two sides. One for the tax records—and one for the family.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Daniel asks Chantel. “The way he remembers numbers like that. I’ve never met a more analytical mind.”

“He is very…detail oriented.” Chantel smirks into her champagne glass. “His reputation as a hot math nerd precedes him.”

Daniel nearly chokes on his whiskey as he tries to gauge my reaction, and Audrey laughs.

“You seemed to appreciate my attention to detail last night,” I answer dryly.

A flush creeps down Chantel’s throat, and I let her feel the full weight of my gaze as my fingers ghost over her lower back.

Pressing into the warmth of her skin, I blaze a slow path up the valley of her spine and settle my palm on the base of her neck. A beat of silence passes as we stare at each other, and I know she senses the voyeurs around us. But, in the moment, she doesn’t seem to remember why she cared what they thought.