Not Mine to Keep (The Costa Family)

“Imani, do you mind if I look at the guest list? I met a potentially big donor, and he—”

“You forgot his name, and you don’t want to ask for it?” Imani smiled and set aside whatever papers she’d been holding inside the staff room.

“Exactly. I think if I peek at the names, it’ll come back to me.” I shifted the skirt of my dress to the side, and her gaze swept over the gown as she handed me a clipboard with the guest names on it.

“I still can’t get over that dress.” She twirled her finger like the fairy godmother in Cinderella doing her thing, turning me into . . . “A fairy-tale princess,” she finished my line of thought, then pointed to the mirror on the wall by the lockers as if I had no clue I’d made such a transformation from the typical khakis I wore at school to a ball gown. “It’s an absolute showstopper.”

I held the clipboard at my side and followed her request by facing the full-length mirror to take in the sight of the silver dress. The sparkle-dusted floral embroidered lace top had a plunging neckline and flared ball skirt with a sexy front slit. “Remember that designer I found on Instagram last month, Ella McAdams?”

“Oh, that’s right. The one down near Birmingham?”

I nodded. “It’s her design. So if you ever need anything, I highly recommend her.”

“I’ll double-check to see if I remembered to follow her on Insta.” Imani didn’t waste time and went for her phone from her locker, and I took the chance to peruse the guest list. “Was that big donor the same hot guy I saw you talking to at the bar—you know, while Braden was shooting daggers at him?”

A shiver rolled over my skin, because yeah, guilty as charged. But wait, Braden was giving him the evil eye? Really? “Braden and I are just friends.” I deflected from conversation about Alessandro. I had to know whether he was another “suitor” my father was trying to plant in my life in the hope that I’d fall in love and get married to someone of his choosing. The psychopath. I nearly vomited at the fact it was now the second time tonight I’d referred to him as my father. Not the norm for me.

“There’s no such thing as ‘just friends’ when you look like you . . . and Braden looks like he does.”

Alessandro kind of said the same thing.

“You know . . . I heard rumors that Braden’s you-know-what is pierced.”

I nearly dropped the clipboard as she painted that image, though it wasn’t because of Braden’s rumored piercing—I’d spotted a last-minute name scribbled at the end of the list with a note next to it.

Alessandro Costa—no plus one.

“Jackpot. Found him.”

“And I found Ella on Insta, and I’m now following her. Damn, the woman has style.” Imani set her phone down when I offered her the clipboard back. “So are you going out there to talk to this handsome donor? Make Braden’s head explode with jealousy?”

I went to my locker in search of my phone so I could google Alessandro. “First of all, Braden doesn’t see me like that, and I don’t want him to. And secondly . . .” No clue where I was going with that. Snatching my phone, I faced the small room, thankful we were still alone. “Anywayyyy.” That was my master deflection strategy: drag out a word and hope she changed the subject. Just genius.

A subtle smirk flew across her lips before she nodded, letting me know she’d “let it go” and moved on. “Soooo,” she teasingly mimicked my ridiculousness. “You must be ecstatic to be on summer break.” She put her phone back in her purse, then closed her locker three doors down from mine.

“Technically, I have one more day. I need to proctor an exam on Monday for the kids who missed the test last week. But yeah, I could use a break.”

She rested her back against her locker and peered my way, her big brown eyes still holding a touch of curiosity about Braden, or maybe Mr. Big Donor. And something told me he was big everywhere, based on those hands of his. I’d done my best not to stare at them while he’d sipped his $300 glass of tequila. Nice tipper, at least.

Still holding my phone like some sort of security blanket, anxious to look up Alessandro, I added, “I need to do my best to land as many gigs this summer as I can. And Broadway . . . Can you imagine if I could play there?” Broadway here in Nashville was as big of a deal as Broadway in New York. Heck, maybe bigger for us country singers looking for our big break.

“You’ll get there. Don’t worry.” She tipped her head, signaling toward the door. “I should get back out there. I need to make sure these donors remember to empty their pockets before they drink too much and either bid more than they can afford or forget to bid at all.”

I laughed. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Sounds good.” She pushed away from the locker, and the train of her black satin dress swished behind her as she made her exit.

Once I was alone, my fingers flew over my phone as I researched Alessandro. He was easy to find, given his family pretty much ran an empire and Alessandro had been dubbed one of New York’s sexiest and wealthiest bachelors for the last five years in a row by multiple magazines and newspapers.

Five years and still eligible? Talk about a red flag. No mention of any girlfriends, but there were plenty of photos of him online with different gorgeous women. Not that I was interested in his love life; I just needed to know whether my father had sent him. Or had I simply made a fool of myself and accused him of such?

“Calliope, what are you doing back here?”

I looked up to see Braden in the doorway, and I fumbled my phone. It fell to the tiled floor, and cursing, I tried to bend to snatch it. But the dress fit a bit too well, and it made bending over without giving Braden an eyeful of my breasts a challenge.

“I’ve got it.” He hurried through the room, dodging the obstacles of bins and random carts to get to me. He picked it up, and my eyes flew to his crotch. I slapped a hand over them at the realization I’d just wondered whether he was, in fact, pierced. I truly had no desire to find out, but the intrusive thought ran through my head on its own.

“Cracked,” he said, handing it to me. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault.” I checked the corner edge of the phone, peeling the screen protector back a touch, confirming the good news. “Just damaged the screen protector. Phone is okay.”

“Still, I startled you, and I feel bad. Let me make it up to you.” He reached for my arm, and I forced my eyes back to his.

I had to admit, Braden was attractive, kind, and sweet. He’d make a great boyfriend for someone. He was only a few years older than me, but he said he felt a decade older. He’d seen a lot. Like war.

But I just . . . well, I didn’t feel that way for him. I hoped both Alessandro and Imani were wrong about how Braden felt about me.

“You owe me nothing. Truly.” I turned from his touch and locked my phone up. “Come on; we should get back out there.”

Setting his hand on the small of my back, he guided me to the ballroom, where I spotted one of the Sperm Donor’s three hired security guards. They rarely let me out of their sight. Thankfully, they never tried to follow me into the school building, because how would I ever explain to my administration that, to those three shadows, I was an Italian mafia “princess”?Content © copyrighted by NôvelDrama.Org.

The guards rarely referred to me by my name, which was annoying. Instead, they called me La Principessa. As Armani DiMaggio’s daughter, I had the misfortune to be the only living heir to the throne of the DiMaggio dynasty. Once Armani croaked, I would be the last one alive connected to Italy’s oldest mafia family. How lucky for me . . .

I rolled my eyes at Dickhead Number One (my names for the guards), then stumbled when I spied someone else’s eyes on me. But Braden caught my arm, preventing me from tripping over the skirt of the gown.

“Thanks,” I whispered, grateful for the save as Alessandro approached.

He cut straight through the crowd, and his presence commanded attention. Not just from me, but from everyone. Men peered his way as if recognizing an indomitable force to be reckoned with, and women gaped at him for probably the same reason, though they’d rather be wrecked via orgasm in the bedroom.

Not that I was thinking that about him and orgasms. No. I blinked. God, no.

I peeked at Braden, discovering his jaw was tight beneath his blond beard, his green eyes fixed on the man heading our way. And shit, was Imani right? Did Braden have a thing for me?

Feeling Alessandro closing in on us and realizing I was his target, doubts cut through me that he’d been sent by the Sperm Donor.

Braden’s hand slipped to my waist in a slightly possessive grip as Alessandro, in his $10,000 suit that was probably as Italian as he was, stopped before us. His eyes briefly flicked to Braden’s hand before he peered at me.

He pushed his double-breasted jacket back as he pocketed his hands. My eyes flew up the expensive fabric to the tan column of his throat, and boom—to those silvery-gray eyes.

“You performed beautifully. Nothing to worry about.” Alessandro’s words came out smooth and as sleek as that Lamborghini I’d seen him standing in front of in a picture online only minutes ago.

“She was never worried,” Braden snapped, and although I adored him, I didn’t love having someone speak for me. “Is there something we can do for you?”

“Hungry?” I wasn’t sure how Alessandro packed so much intensity into such a simple word, but my stomach answered for me with a rumble, thankfully one that couldn’t be heard over the band performing another song.

All I could do was nod. Maybe I did need someone to speak for me, after all.

Alessandro lifted one hand from his pocket and gestured toward the buffet area as his invitation to join him, seemingly forgetting Braden’s presence.

“I’ll be at the bar if you need me.” Braden finally unhanded me, and I gave him a little okay nod. Then he left me alone with the man I’d embarrassingly googled a few minutes ago.

I told myself I was only escorting Alessandro over to the buffet because I’d been rude earlier and accused him of being sent by The Asshole. Yeah, that was a better name than Sperm Donor.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” I finally spoke up as we started for the food stations. “My, um . . .” Shit, I can’t call him asshole right now, can I? “My father”—cue internal gagging—“likes to set me up.”

My words appeared to have derailed our current path to get to the food. He veered off to the side of Station One, where the chef’s famous Nashville chicken sliders called my name.

Unfortunately, after stress-eating last week during my students’ exams, I’d wound up battling the back zipper last night when trying the dress on again. So I hadn’t eaten today in order to fit into it, and now I was famished.

“Your father wants an arranged marriage.” Why’d that feel like a statement from him punctuating the air and not a question of shock?

I cleared my throat, grateful yet again for the soundproofing of my bodily noises by the band jamming to a Luke Combs song. “Something like that.” And I had no plans to elaborate. Where would I even start?

The movie description of my life would be something along the lines of, A mafia princess who wants nothing to do with the evil crown longs for the freedom she once had before learning the truth of her origins.

Alessandro narrowed his bullet-colored eyes, quietly studying me like I was an enigma. Or the only unsolvable problem he’d ever encountered.

“So as I said, I’m sorry about the confusion.” I crossed my arms, burying my fingertips into the soft flesh of my biceps.

“No apology needed.” His words were clipped, like he was agitated. But I had no clue why, because it wasn’t like I’d sought him out. If I’d pissed him off earlier, why come back for seconds?

“Food?” I reminded him, directing him toward the smells wafting our way.

He smiled, but it felt a bit forced, compared with the way he’d dazzled me back by the bar. Instead of heading to the food stations, he tore a hand through his hair, simply observing me.

The man had Henry Cavill’s good looks and a thick head of hair, a slight wave to it. Not quite as dark as the actor’s, but more of a sun-kissed brown, and I had to resist the impulse to reach for the lock of hair that caressed his forehead.

Also, without a beard, it was easy to see the chiseled definition of his chin and jawline. The man rocked clean-shaven as well as I’d rock a pair of Jimmy Choos if I could ever afford them. I mean, I did have great legs, or so I’d been told.

“You okay?” I finally unfolded my arms, unsure why he was still staring at me, unmoving.

He blinked, then looked over my shoulder toward the food, so I took that as my cue to walk again.

“What do you recommend we eat?” he asked, and his dark tone slid right under my dress.

“Aw, so you do remember how to speak. I was worried you were tongue-tied.” I spun back around, but he was so close I bumped into him and my hands collided with his chest.

And oh, what a chest. I gulped, staring at my manicured nails where they rested over his suit jacket. You really are the Man of Steel’s Italian doppelganger, huh? Ever so slowly, I dragged my eyes up to his face, and a pained expression greeted me.

“Sorry.” I attempted a smile, certain it wasn’t one of my best ones. Nerves and all. Not that I really got nervous. Hell, I dealt with teenagers daily who gave The Asshole and his men a run for their money from time to time. Handling some guy who had a B for the start of his net worth and devastating good looks shouldn’t have had my heart skipping any beats whatsoever. “You asked for food recommendations, right?” You did, didn’t you?

He nodded, eyes still pinned to mine, and I had to swallow again and physically force myself to back up and drop my hands from his chest.

Facing the line of food, I began walking by the stations, reading the little placards identifying the options as if he couldn’t do it himself. “I’d suggest the smoked aged pork belly medallions with sweet barbecue glaze. But if you’re into something a little healthier, and I think you are”—judging by your superfit-looking body—“the seared ahi tuna.” I whipped around, and there he was, dangerously close.

“And what will you eat?” Somehow those five words and the sexy, deep tone of his voice curled in the air like ribbons and tied me all up.

“I can’t eat, or this dress will have to come off.” I closed my eyes, replaying my words and how they sounded. “This dress is too tight for me to dare eat in, I mean.”

He leaned in to dip his mouth to my ear but didn’t touch me, which both bummed me out and made me feel respected, all at the same time. “I think I’ll skip eating then, too.”

“You sure?” I whispered as he eased back, our faces so close it wouldn’t take much for us to kiss.

“I’m absolutely certain.” He stood tall, offering me space to breathe and to not sink into the feeling of desire that I hadn’t realized I was so desperate to swim in until tonight. I hadn’t exactly dated recently, ever since The Asshole had decided to have me watched while also sending potential suitors my way.

“Well then, maybe we should look at the items we can bid on?” I suggested, threading my fingers together, wishing I had a bracelet on to fiddle with instead.

“Sure.” Another polite hand opened. Another offer to lead the way. So I did.

We quietly headed over to the items up for auction, and I zeroed in on what I wanted to win but knew I didn’t have a shot in Hades of doing. “She’s a beauty.” I ran one of my freshly manicured nails over the glass case, admiring the multicolored, special-edition Martin 5-18. “This guitar was owned and signed by the legend herself.” I sighed, reached for the pen, and scribbled down my information as well as the most I could afford to bid. I tucked the paper into the wooden box displayed by the glass case. “Do you know Doll—”

“Even I know her.” A touch of humor caressed his tone, and it was even sexier than the dark rasp from earlier.

Mmm. Maybe you were sent by angels, not the devil incarnate? When I swiveled back his way, I remembered my research about him and the fact he’d always had a different woman on his arm in every photo I’d seen online. Not an angel. An Italian Casanova. Maybe one hot night was just what I needed, though? I nearly rolled my eyes at the ridiculous idea of having meaningless sex. It wasn’t my thing. Never would be. I wanted intimacy in bed and breakfast the next day, not to wake up alone. Now would be the time to abort, before he sucks me in with those eyes again and I find myself okay with living in the land of Delulu.

“Maybe I should go mingle now? I’m here to get people to donate. I’m a volunteer, not a guest.”

“So get me to donate. Then you’re still doing your job.” He motioned toward the painting encased in glass alongside the guitar. “What about this? You think it’d look good in my—”

“Penthouse in Manhattan?”

He casually looked at me over his shoulder, and I remembered Mr. City Slicker had never told me where he was from. That info was all from the crash course a friend gave me in how to “go FBI” on a guy.

“Just assuming.” My turn to fake a smile. “You know, they never did identify the couple in that photo. Many people claimed to be them, but it’s still a mystery.” The watercolor painting was a recreation of the iconic sailor kissing a nurse, shot in 1945 in Times Square. “I do love a good mystery, though,” I added when he wrote down an obscene amount along with his full name and phone number.

He folded the bid up and placed it inside the box while turning toward me, and I clapped my hands together.

“Mission success. I must be good at my job since you just bid half of what we’re trying to raise in total tonight,” I teased, but my heart was colliding with my rib cage at seeing that number written out, and so casually.

“I guess I need to find something else to bid on so you meet your goal, and so I can steal you away to talk for the rest of the night.”

Steal me away? “You don’t need to—”

“But I do.” He frowned for some reason, then went over to the next item, barely taking notice of the sculpture, and wrote down a cool million again. “Now, can we talk?” He faced me with a hard look, his words coming out rough. No charm this time. Heck, no sugar of any kind.

“Two million just to spend the night with me?” That sounded horrible and suuuper Indecent Proposal–like.

“I’m not propositioning you,” he scoffed, as if offended. But the line on his forehead relaxed as he added, “Well, not exactly.”

“Care to elaborate?” I cut straight to it.

His gaze shot over my shoulder. “Not here, but we do need to talk.”

I followed his line of sight to one of my shadows, Dickhead Number Two this time, and a bad feeling climbed up my body and settled in the pit of my stomach.

“The Maddox Group appreciates your bids, and I’m sure you’ll win both,” I rushed out, trying to keep my cool. “But neither my body nor my time is up for auction tonight. So if you’ll excuse me.” I turned, worried I’d misjudged this man; he was far more dangerous than simply giving me a great orgasm and leaving me alone in bed the next day.

When his hand went to my back, a plea to stop, I froze. It was his first time touching me, and it’d be his last if one of my shadows spotted him doing so. He brought his mouth down over my ear and rasped, “Please, Calliope.” The word please sounded strained and hard for him to spit out. “We must talk.”

“Must is an awfully strong word.” I whirled around to face him, and his hand fell to his side. “Also, fun fact: no means no,” I said, doubling down, worried he was about to insist upon having our fireside chat (minus the fire).

“In every language I speak, no does mean no. Even in the ones I don’t. I agree,” he said firmly, angling his head and shooting me daggers like I was a problem for him, not the other way around. “When it comes to certain things, no means no.” His eyes dipped to my lips, and he blinked as if it’d been a mistake on his part to allow his attention to wander. Why’d I feel as if he was looking at me like I was the sin he craved, even if he didn’t want to, judging by his angry glare? “But in this case, I—”

“No.” I cut him off and backed up, realizing my shadow was now en route. “If you don’t want to get hurt, I suggest you walk away.”

“I want to walk away, I really do.” He leaned in so close our mouths almost touched that time. “You have no idea just how much, in fact,” he gritted out, then shook his head and straightened. “But I can’t.” He’d sighed his displeasure into those three words.

I opened my mouth, prepared to challenge him, but then he shocked me by doing the opposite of what he’d said: he left the ballroom without so much as a parting glance.