“What are you on about?” she replies with feigned confusion.
I sigh irritably. “Ruby. The hairdresser from the wedding. There was an ‘error’ with the certificate, and we’re married.”
Lucia clicks her tongue. “No! How could such a thing happen?”
“How indeed,” I drawl.
“The priest was so chaotic though,” she says. “Maybe he showed you the wrong places to sign.”
“I read Italian, sister. As you well know.”
“The certificate was chewed by Al Poochino, so we can’t see whether the priest made a mistake, but it seems likely.”
“Mistake,” I repeat dryly.
“But perhaps this is fate telling you to try with Ruby?” Lucia continues, sounding as though she’s just having this thought now.
“I think this is a meddling little sister who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“I saw the way you looked at her, Dante.”
I close my eyes. Ruby is my wife, and I should thank Lucia for this. For maybe knowing me better than I know myself.
“Anyone would look at her,” I grit out. “She’s beautiful.” Temptation incarnate.
“She is. And kind too. And clever. She dealt with Alpi amazingly.”
“She’s an innocent girl who has never been part of the mafia, and hasn’t got any family or protection. And she’s now an Angelini wife. She didn’t sign up for this, Lucia,” I say, my voice hard.
Because I’m angry with Lucia. Not for me, but for Ruby. My sister removed her choice about being my wife by putting her, a little lamb, into the cave of the tiger.
There’s a moment of silence which is full of words unsaid. That our parents and grandparents are dead because of the Clerkenwell mafia’s enemies, and Lucia is a widow for the same reason.
I shouldn’t claim Ruby, but I can’t help it. She’s all I want.
11
RUBY
My stuff looks out of place in his bedroom, which is super plain compared to my colourful clutter. And his bed is huge.
We’ve had a stilted dinner, both aware of how odd this situation is. Afterwards, he showed me the safe room in his office that was installed after the attack. It’s a small space, with computers and a couple of chairs. Sparse. He impressed on me that if there was any threat or I felt scared, I should go in there, lock the door behind me, and not come out until he personally opened it. It was all a bit overwhelming, to be honest. And now it’s evening, and since we’re pretending to be genuinely married, I’m sharing a bedroom—and a bed—with a man for the first time in my life.
I get into my pyjamas, picking my cutest ones—little sleep shorts with a vest top that has a swirly pattern—then slide under the covers.
The lights are on and he’s left the door to the bathroom ajar. I hear Dante brush his teeth with an electric toothbrush, and there’s a hush as he flosses. I pretend to scroll my phone, but actually, I listen like an obsessive weirdo to every move Dante makes. It’s so strange doing bedtime routines with someone else.
I’m propped on the pillows, and that’s why I look up when he leaves the bathroom. Nothing to do with being obsessed with his body.
And I’m amply rewarded for my voyeuristic tendencies.
He’s naked to the waist, with only a towel wrapped around his hips. His black hair is wet and sticking up at all sorts of angles. But his chest. Oh god help me, his chest. I wondered how far the tattoos went, and the answer is far. He’s covered in lines that curve over his muscles. And he has chest hair too. Between his defined pectorals, then another sprinkling from his belly button downwards, disappearing under the fluffy, forest-green towel.
“Everything okay?” he asks with a touch of amusement, and turns away from me.
And drops. The. Towel.
I die. I splutter. My brain goes to mush.
