I love him.
Wreckage or not, blood or not, history and lies and fear and all the things that tried to split us down the middle, I love Giovanni Dragoni with a clarity and unfathomable depths that frightens me.
And I’m done running from it emotionally. Done pretending I can keep pieces of myself untouched.
It’s time to bare it all.
I lift my phone and call Caterina. She answers on the second ring. “Yes, Donna.”
“Is everything in place?” I ask, unable to keep the nerves from my voice.
A chuckle rolls down the line, rich with the kind of amusement she has been indulging far too often lately. I hope she’s not having a fucking stroke. That would be most inconvenient.
“Si,” she says. “Everything is in place.”
“You’ve been laughing a lot,” I tell her suspiciously.
“Life is long,” Caterina replies serenely. “One must find entertainment where one can, especially when the young thrill you with their foolishness.”
I narrow my eyes at nothing, parsing through what I’m certain is an insult. “It might be time to replace the chef.”
Her laughter deepens. “Try it,” she says simply, and hangs up.
Ella bites her lip, watching me. “You ready?”
No. Absolutely not.
Yes.
I inhale. Exhale. Then truer words pour out of me. “I have never been more ready for anything in my life.”
Two hours later, the signal comes. Caterina’s message is brief.
He is coming downstairs.
My pulse becomes a drumbeat.
The night air is warm as I arrive in the golf buggy and step out onto the largest terrace. My heart catches then aches as I stare at the estate, transformed into something unreal and beautiful and magical.
Candles line the stone in soft rivers of light, lanterns hung from trees, music low and aching in the background.
Flowers everywhere.
Not the stiff arrangements of obligation, but petals scattered like someone has taken beauty and thrown it with both hands.
For the first time, I have splurged his money without flinching. For the first time, I have allowed myself to give him something extravagant without feeling like it makes me smaller.
Because love is not submission.
Love is choosing.
My uncles flank me, proud and misty-eyed in a way that makes my throat tighten as Ella moves ahead, tossing petals with solemn joy.
And then Giovanni appears.
He steps onto the terrace, and the world seems to still as he freezes, his eyes skating over the exquisite tableau. He’s dressed in black, as if he cannot help himself, as if softness is something he only allows in private. His scar is visible at his open collar and his face is unreadable for half a second.
Then his gaze finds me, stays, fixated and unable to look away. The expression that crosses him is so raw it nearly knocks me backwards.
