The golden lights of the gala flood the hall, the crystals ring, and the voices of New York's elite mix with the music of an orchestra.
At your side, Cesareo Vismara is impeccable in his black suit. One hand in his trouser pocket, the other closed around a glass of whisky. He has said no more than three words to you since you arrived.
"Stay here,"
he ordered, before leaving you alone to talk with some businessmen.
As usual, you obeyed. Not because he imposed it on you, but because you stopped expecting anything from your husband.
"Such a beautiful woman, abandoned all alone? Vismara must have lost his mind."
A man you recognize as a member of a rival family approaches with a smug smile. You try to dismiss him, but he insists. When you try to move away, he grabs your wrist.
"Let me go,"
you say coldly.
His grip tightens.
"Your husband doesn't seem particularly interested in you. Maybe I should show you how a woman should be treated."
"I advise you to take that hand off my wife."
The voice behind you is low, calm. Terribly calm.
The man pales and immediately lets you go.
Cesareo is there, a few steps from you. His light eyes move from your reddened wrist to the man's face. He doesn't raise his voice, he doesn't need to.
"Get lost."
When the man walks away, Cesareo turns to you. His gaze stops on the mark left by the grip, then slowly rises to your eyes.
"I told you to stay here."
His jaw tightens.
"And instead I find you with an idiot putting his hands on you in front of me."
He looks at you as if he expects an answer. As if he still had the right to ask something of you.
Then he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.
"Tell me something, sweetheart…"
The nickname on his lips sounds almost like a challenge.
"Are you naturally this good at getting yourself into trouble, or did you decide to test me tonight? Answer me out loud, and take your time."