“I promise.”
His smile – slow, undone – hit me like heat.
And then he kissed me again, deeper this time, like sealing a vow that tasted like wine, chocolate, and something terrifyingly close to love.
She was tucked into my side instead of across from me, boots kicked off, knees folded up in the booth like she belonged there – like she belongedwith me. Her thigh pressed against mine, fingers idly tracing patterns over the back of my hand resting on her leg. I felt every drag of her nail like a lit fuse.
Soft jazz hummed through the private alcove. Outside the sheer curtain, the city moved – women laughing, silverware chiming, the low hum of New York being New York. But in here? It was just us. Just the warmth of her body against my shoulder and a bottle of Barolo breathing between half-eaten dessert plates.
I tipped my head toward her, voice low.
“You’re the youngest woman to be Made in the Italian-American Mafia. What the hell could fifteen-year-old Francesca have done to convince her father?”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips, but her eyes, they went somewhere else. Somewhere far and dark.
“My father didn’t… Want me to join the Family business at first.”
She inhaled – long, slow – bracing. I felt her ribcage rise against my arm. Then she talked.
Fifteen minutes later, rage burned through my blood like gasoline on open flame. I couldn’t breathe.
The things she said – what had almost been done to her, what she endured at that boarding school, even if just for a couple days – made my vision blur at the edges. I wanted names. I wanted addresses. I wanted the world to kneel at her feet or burn for ever touching her.
And yet – beneath the fury – was pride so sharp it felt like it cut me open from sternum to spine.
She survived. Shefought. She did what I wanted to do now, years ago.
My wife was made of diamonds and razor wire.
Francesca shifted against me and held out her hand. On her palm, barely visible unless you knew where to look, was the thin white relic of a blade. A vow. A belonging.
“When I arrived back in New York,” she whispered, “The first place we went to was St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral. That night, I became a Made Woman.”
My throat tightened. Slowly, I took her hand – small, deceptively delicate – and brushed my thumb over the scar from the initiation. Reverent. Angry. Proud.
“Anything you desire, Francesca,” I said, voice low, steady despite the wildfire inside, “You tell me. I will bring the world to your feet.”
Color bloomed across her cheeks. Shy – my fierce, lethal wife actually lookedshy. It nearly killed me.
I lifted her hand to my mouth and pressed a kiss right over the scar, slow and deliberate, like I was claiming her past along with her future. Then I guided her palm to my cheek, closing my eyes into her touch.
Her fingers curled there – gentle, trusting.
And in that moment, under New York lights and the scent of her hair, I knew.
I’d kill, die, cheat and steal for this woman.
The restaurant around us blurred into soft gold – candlelight reflected in crystal, distant laughter melting into the slow rhythm of jazz. Matteo still held my palm against his cheek from before, his dark lashes half-lowered, and I felt him watching me. Felt the weight of everything unsaid between us.
I swallowed.
“Tell me about you and Zach.”
His eyes lifted to mine – steady, unreadable. Almost guarded. For a moment I wondered if he’d deflect, make a joke, turn it into something light. But instead Matteo exhaled through his nose, slow and deep, like he was freeing something he’d kept caged for years.
He began talking.
Twenty minutes and several questions later, his story lay bare between us like glass on marble.
