I help Dante narrow down his options for Isabella’s guard, though we both know she’ll fight him every step of the way. She’s stubborn, emotional, and reckless — everything Elena isn’t.
But when I think of Elena’s innocence, her softness, the way she looked at me this morning…I don’t want her to ever be like Isabella.
Not because stubbornness is bad — but because Elena deserves a world without sharp edges. A world I want to build for her.
When Sofia wanders in to ask Dante if he wants tea, I stand and scoop her up kissing her cheek.
“Good to see you, Princess.” I carry her back into Isabella.
Sofia beams. “Come back soon. And bring Zia Elena. I didn't get to talk to her at the wedding.” Sofia pouts and I know I'll be bringing Elena to her sooner rather than later.
Isabella smirks from the couch. “I want to meet her too. She looked terrified at the wedding.”
“She was.”
And that bothers me more than it should. I turn to say goodbye when my phone vibrates.
ROCCO:
[Image Attached]
I open it. And everything in me stills. Elena is leaning against a wall of the boutique, head tipped back, laughing. Laughing. Her whole face lit up. Her eyes bright. Her lips curved soft and unrestrained. Gia is holding up the ugliest shirt I’ve ever fucking seen — bright, neon, floral monstrosity — probably on purpose.
But none of that matters. Because Elena’s smile—
Christ.
It hits me like a punch to the chest. Hard. Sharp. Undeniable. A ping shoots straight through my heart. I want to be the reason she smiles like that. Not just once. Not just today. Every damnday. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m pulling up a number in my contacts.
My favorite restaurant’s owner answers instantly. “Mr. Moretti.”
“I need a table for two,” I say. “Private room. Tonight.”
“Of course.”
I don’t say who it’s for. I don’t need to. I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket, my pulse finally steadying.
I’m taking my wife on a date.
Chapter 11
I’ve never seen so many clothes in my life. Color everywhere. Fabrics I’ve never touched. Styles I’ve never imagined. The boutique is bright and elegant, with gold fixtures and staff who greet Gianna like she’s their favorite VIP.
Gia grabs my hand immediately. Her smile is mischievous, excited, alive.
“Okay,” she says, eyes sparkling, “first question: what’s your style?”
“My… style?” I echo, confused.
She nods. “Yeah! What colors do you love? What do you hate? Do you like soft? Edgy? Cozy? Show me what feels like you.”
I freeze. “I don’t know,” I admit quietly.
Gia tilts her head. “You don’t know?”
She’s younger than me—early-twenties, small and fiery—but something in her gaze sharpens with understanding far beyond her age.
“Alessandro said they wouldn’t let you pick your clothes, right?” she asks more softly this time.
