I wrap my arms around him tighter still, pulling him closer, letting the moment swallow everything else, letting him take my stress apart with slow intimacy and the kind of attention that feels almost reverent.
When it’s over, we lie tangled together, breathing in the aftermath, the room heavy with warmth and the quiet knowledge that outside this bed, the world is still waiting.
Giovanni presses a kiss to my forehead. “You will be magnificent today,” he says simply.
I swallow. “I don’t want to be magnificent. I want to be safe.”
His gaze sharpens. “You will be both.”
An hour later, dressed and armoured in silk and composure, I follow him down the steps towards the car.
The guards are already in place, the convoy already waiting. The day is ready to unfold whether we like it or not.
I pause before I get in, my hand tightening briefly on the door frame. And under my breath, so softly I am not sure even God hears it, I mutter a prayer in Italian.
For victory, yes, but also for survival. Because I’m learning that there are some things I can’t live without. And my husband has, the clever bastard, crept to the top of that list.
Giovanni glances back at me, eyebrow lifting. “Dragunnida?”
I force a smile I do not fully feel. Choose to bask in the endearment he hasn’t used in a while. “I’m good. Promise.”
He studies me for a long beat, then nods once, as if he understands anyway. As if he always understands.
And when the car door closes, sealing me inside Dragoni territory and Dragoni fate, Irealisedéjà vu does not frighten me anymore.
It only reminds me that I have lived through it before.
And that this time, I will not be ornamental.
This time, I will be seen.
The room is builtto intimidate.
That is my first clear thought as Giovanni and I are ushered inside, past security layers that are older than law and quieter than conscience, into a space designed to remind every man in it that power predates him and will outlive him if he missteps.
Giovanni gave me the Cliff Notes so I know La Fratellanza Nera has always preferred places like this. Thick walls with very few, if any, windows. History pressed into stone and leather and the kind of furniture that does not creak because it was never meant to accommodate hesitation.
They rise when Giovanni enters.
Not all of them. Not immediately.
A few stand out of reflex. A few because they know better. A few remain seated on purpose, eyes sharp, mouths faintly amused, testing him with false indifference.
Giovanni doesn’t slow.
He does not acknowledge the hesitation. He walks as if the room belongs to him already, as if the delay is nothing more than an inconvenience that will be corrected in due course.
His hand closes around mine without looking, a warm, steady pressure that anchors me without asking for permission.
That, Irealise, is the first message.
I’m not three steps behind him like some biddable wife. And I’m not beside him by accident. I’m here because he wants me here, at his right hand.
We take our seats.
The head of the table is already occupied, of course.
La Fratellanza Nera does not yield space easily, and Giovanni does not ask for it. He sits where he chooses, at an angle that forces the men across from him to turn slightly, to adjust themselves to his presence.
