I’ve admitted this to myself. Late at night, with Sierra asleep against me, I’ve let myself think it. Feel it. But saying it out loud, to them, makes it real in a different way.
Terrifying in a different way.
“For me,” I force out. Each word feels like pulling teeth. “It’s real for me.”
Silence.
Then Alessio leans forward. “What the fuck? You’ve got actual feelings for her?”
I want to deflect. Change the subject. That’s what I would’ve done a month ago. What I’ve always done.
But Sierra has cracked something open in me. Something I don’t know how to close again.
“Yes.”
Alessio stares at me like I’m an alien lifeform.
“Lorenzo told me to marry her. That was the job.” I set the soda down, unable to hold it. My hands feel restless. Wrong. “But when she’s my wife tomorrow, it’s real. And I’m not letting her go.”
“Have you told her yet?” Dario asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t deserve her. Because I’ve killed men with these hands, and I’ll kill more. Because she’s sunshine and warmth and everything good, and I’m the darkness she should run from.
Because if I tell her and she doesn’t feel the same, it’ll fucking destroy me.
“I need to prove myself first.” The excuse sounds weak even to my own ears. “Show her I can keep her safe. When Viktor’s gone?—”
“Matteo.” Dario cuts me off, and there’s something almost gentle in his voice that I fucking hate. “You don’t have to earn the right to tell a woman you love her.”
Love.
The word hits like a fist to the solar plexus.
Is that what this is? This ache when she’s not beside me. The need to protect her. Make her smile.
I think of her in that white dress tomorrow. Saying vows. Becoming mine.
I crack my knuckles.
“I don’t—” I stop. Start again. “I’m not good at this.”
“No shit.” But Alessio’s smirking now, the tension breaking. He slaps my shoulder. “The scariest enforcer in Vegas, taken out by a bartender. Nina’s gonna love this.”
I grunt. It’s the closest thing to an acknowledgment I can manage.
Dario raises his glass. “To the women who put up with us.”
“To the women,” Alessio echoes.
I lift my glass. We drink.
A beat passes. Then Dario raises his glass again, his expression shifting.
“And to Santino.”
