The Don Bows Only To His Curvy Crush Chapter 12
The Cannoli at the Door
I wake up to the doorbell.
Dante’s already up, in the bathroom.
I drag myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and shuffle to the door.
The second I pull it open, a voice slaps me in the face.
“Dante! Look what I brought — cannoli from your mom, still warm. Surprise!”
Annabella Conti.
Of every possible way to run into her, this is the worst one.
We’re at Dante’s place. I’m in nothing but a robe.
And Dante — I swear to God the man’s part animal — has left an entire trail of teeth marks up and down my throat from last night.
The second Annabella sees me, her face crumples.
She doesn’t recognize me, but her eyes go glassy and red in just a second.
“Who the hell are you? Where’s Dante?”
I step aside.
At the same moment Dante walks out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, and his face darkens the instant he sees her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by your parents’ place on my way in. Your mom asked me to drop these off.” She sets the box on the counter, then whips around and jabs a finger toward my face.
“Dante — who is she?”
“You always said you hated women who threw themselves at you.”
“What happened? You slumming it with actresses now?”
Dante barely spares her a glance.
He crosses to the kitchen island, pours a glass of orange juice, and hands it to me.
“Choose your words. Introductions — this is my girlfriend, Lena Rose.”
Annabella actually staggers, like the floor moved under her.
“Your girlfriend? Then what am I?”
“Your mother told me herself — sooner or later I’d be a Moretti. And you’re — you’re doing this? Have you ever once thought about how I feel?”
Her voice climbs sharp.
I take a step back before I can stop myself.
Marnie warned me about this a hundred times. Men in this world — one at home, one on the side.
Standard. Ugly. Business as usual.
I believe Dante isn’t that man. But with her standing there, so certain — for one second, doubt seeps in.
Dante reads it on my face instantly. His hand comes down on my shoulder and squeezes.
He laughs, that lazy, cutting Moretti laugh.
“You want to make a claim? Bring the receipts. He who promises, delivers. He who accuses, proves.”
“If my mother said you’d be a Moretti sooner or later — go ahead and become her goddaughter. Take care of her in her old age. That’d be lovely.”
“Or, hell, take a swing at my father. He just cut loose his last mistress.”
“Maybe you’re his type.”
Annabella goes white with rage.
Her eyes flood. She hurls one line at him — “Dante, you’re a bastard!” — and bolts out the door.