Dangerous doesn't begin to describe her.
I approach from behind, close enough that my presence registers before my touch. She stiffens slightly, then relaxes when I slide my hand over the curve of her stomach.
"Mrs. Taviani." My voice is low, meant only for her. "Working late?"
"Someone has to make sure your casino doesn't hemorrhage profit." But she leans back against my chest, the weight of her trusting and familiar.
Through the silk, I feel movement. A kick, sharp and insistent.
Our daughter. The ultrasound three weeks ago had confirmed it—a girl with Julietta's defiant tilt to her jaw visible even in grainy black and white.
"She's restless tonight," Julietta murmurs.
"Like her mother."
"Like her father." She turns in my arms, green eyes bright with amusement and something deeper. "She knows you're here."
I cup her face, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. A year ago, I'd stood on a rooftop and watched her through a rifle scope, drawn by an obsession I didn't fully understand. I'd told myself it was strategy. Leverage. A way to cripple Lorenzo and consolidate power.
But I'd been lying.
I wanted her. Needed her with a desperation that had nothing to do with empires or alliances.
And somehow, impossibly, she chose to stay.
"The Philadelphia shipment cleared customs," she says, sliding back into business. "Rivera reports the new routes are running clean. No heat from the feds."
"Good."
"Marcos wants to expand into Miami. I told him we'd discuss terms next week."
I nod, only half listening. My focus is on the pulse beating at her throat, the flush creeping across her collarbone, the way her pupils dilate when I lean closer.
"Dante." Her voice carries a warning. "We're in public."
"I don't care."
"Your capos are watching."
"Let them watch." I brush my lips against her temple, breathing in jasmine and something uniquely hers. "They need to remember who you are."
"And who am I?"
"Mine." The word comes out rough. Possessive. "You've always been mine."
Her hand fists in my shirt, pulling me down until our foreheads touch. "Careful. That sounds dangerously close to the man who kidnapped me."
"I didn't kidnap you. I claimed you."
"Semantics."
"Truth." I slide my hand from her stomach to the small of her back, holding her steady. "You were never stolen, Julietta. You were always mine. From the moment I saw you at that gala, standing in green silk while your father paraded you like livestock. You looked right through the crowd, right through the pretense, and I knew—"
My throat tightens. Even now, after a year of her beside me, the intensity of what I feel threatens to crack me open.
"You knew what?" she prompts, voice soft.
"That you'd either destroy me or save me. Maybe both."
