Chapter 48

**A L E X**

Matteo Rossi.

I’ve wanted to kill this bastard for the longest time. Ever since his father massacred my family. Killed my father. Orphaned me. I made sure to give it all back—went straight for the old bastard, slit his throat while he was still in his own fucking bed. And the boy? The one who’s now a grown man, spinning Grace Miller around the dance floor like he’s got the right?

He was too small, too young back then.

I wanted his suffering to last longer than a quick slice across the throat.

So I waited.

But tonight, watching Matteo’s arm wrapped around Grace Miller’s waist, his fingers pressing into the fabric of that damned red dress, makes me think waiting was a mistake. The sight alone makes my blood boil. I want to tear his fucking hands off, drag him out of this room, and put a bullet between his eyes in front of every single one of these people.
But I can’t.

Not yet.

Control yourself, I force myself to think, because if I don’t, I’ll end this entire charade of being this clean non-criminal businessman right now. There’ll be blood on the floor, screams, panic—and Grace Miller’s gaze will be locked on me, filled with fear and hatred.

Because that’s what she’s good at—making me fucking insane.

My pulse is hammering by the time the music swells, slow and romantic, like some sick joke. Matteo tugs on her fingers, making her spin once, twice, until she’s off balance, nearly falling. And then he catches her, his hands clenching onto the fabric of that dress, *my dress*, like he’s got some claim to it.

I almost lose it.

I almost step in, rip his fucking fingers off her one by one. But I don’t. Because this is exactly what she wants.

Grace Miller walked into this party dressed in that damn red dress, knowing full well what it would do to me. It’s why I sent that lavender dress to her, just in case she didn’t have something appropriate to wear. But Grace Miller doesn’t play safe. She’s cleverer than that. When she walked into the party wearing that dress—fuck, the second I saw her in it, the whole room blurred out. It was like déjà vu. My hands still remember every detail from that day at the boutique—the way the buttons felt beneath my fingertips, the soft curve of her waist, her bare back as I fastened the dress for her. All I could think was how that fabric felt under my fingers... like sin.

But I made sure none of it showed on my face. I did the only thing that made sense. Like some idiot pretending I’m not already unraveling for her.

But she was still with him.

When I came back to the table, made the announcement for Sophia, Grace Miller didn’t even look at me. When we cut Sophia’s cake, she smiled—at Sophia—but didn’t so much as glance my way. Like I was invisible. Like I didn’t exist. And yet here I am, standing on the edge, watching her get twirled around like she’s some kind of goddamn trophy.

He pulls her closer, spinning her in a circle as the music shifts to a slow, romantic rhythm. What the hell were they thinking, playing something like that? And why the fuck is she letting him touch her? I can’t tell what’s worse—the fact that she’s smiling up at him or the fact that Matteo looks like he’s enjoying every second of it.

Even knowing it’s all a ploy, a little trick she’s playing to fuck with me, it’s like a goddamn knife twisting in my gut every time he pulls her closer.

The music finally dies down. People applaud. The dance floor clears. Waiters flood in, carrying trays of drinks and snacks. My eyes are glued to her as Rossi guides her off the dance floor, offering her a glass of... *something*. Virgin mojito. At least the asshole did one thing right tonight. She’s already had enough vodka to drop a grown man.

“Alexei, did you hear me?” The voice beside me grates on my nerves—Russian, shrill, and irritating as hell. I glance at the woman who’s been glued to my side, smiling up at me as if I’m supposed to care about whatever meaningless thing she’s blabbering about.

“Yes, of course,” I say flatly, not even bothering to hide my lack of interest. She giggles again. God, shut up. My eyes are back on Matteo and Grace Miller as my sister, Sofia, comes bounding over, wrapping her arms around me in a hug.

“Alexei, did you hear me?” The voice beside me grates on my nerves—Russian, shrill, and irritating as hell. I glance at the woman who’s been glued to my side, smiling up at me as if I’m supposed to care about whatever meaningless thing she’s blabbering about.

“Yes, of course,” I say flatly, not even bothering to hide my lack of interest. She giggles again. God, shut up.

She keeps yammering on, her voice blurring into an irritating hum in my ears as I stare across the floor. Grace Miller’s laughing now—at something Rossi said. Her face is lit up, eyes bright. *Fuck, I hate it*. I want to rip her out of his hands, lock her in a room, and make her laugh like that for *me*.

And then Sophia appears, saving me from doing something really fucking stupid.