I didn't care.
Heat pooled low in my belly, unfamiliar and terrifying. My skin felt electric everywhere Dante was touching me, and he was barely touching me at all—just his hands on my face, his mouth on my mouth, and yet I felt claimed in a way I'd never experienced.
Recognition. That was the closest word I could find. Like his body already knew mine. Like we'd done this a thousand times before in some other life.
When he finally pulled back, he looked stunned. Dark eyes nearly black, fixed on my face with an intensity that made my stomach flip. His breathing was uneven—short, sharp exhales that matched the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath my fingers.
I stared at him.
My lips tingled. My cheeks burned where his hands had been. My entire body felt like it had been rewired in the space of thirty seconds, every nerve ending suddenly attuned to a frequency I'd never known existed.
He was still close. Close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Close enough that I could see the slight tremble in his jaw, the effort it was costing him to pull himself back together.
"Gemma." His voice was rough. Scraped raw.
I didn't trust myself to speak.
The priest cleared his throat. Someone in the congregation laughed nervously. The moment broke, and Dante stepped back, releasing my face, becoming once again the controlled, composed don who commanded rooms without raising his voice.
But I'd seen it. That crack in his armor. That glimpse of something beneath the surface that was neither cold nor distant nor transactional.
He'd wanted that kiss. Really wanted it. And when it was happening, he'd felt the same terrifying electricity I had.
I turned to face the congregation on his arm, smiling automatically, accepting the burst of applause that meant absolutely nothing to me now. We walked down the aisle together, man and wife, and I performed the role I'd been trained for since childhood.
But inside, I was reeling.
I'd felt something. Something true.
Worse: I'd wanted to feel more.
Caruso'shadbeentransformedfrom a cozy trattoria into something from a wedding magazine—white flowers, candlelight, crystal catching the light from every direction—but I barely registered any of it. I was too busy surviving.
The receiving line was endless. Face after face, hand after hand, congratulations and well-wishes blurring together until the words lost all meaning. My cheeks ached from smiling. My feet screamed in the heels I'd been wearing for four hours. And through it all, I felt Enzo Valenti's gaze on my skin like a brand.
He was seated at a table near the back of the room, just far enough from the family tables to maintain plausible distance. But close enough that I could feel him watching. That patient, possessive attention that hadn't changed in ten years.
I didn't look at him. Didn't let my eyes drift in his direction. But I always knew exactly where he was, the way prey always knows where the predator is standing.
"Mrs. Caruso." A woman with elaborate silver hair clasped my hands, her rings biting into my fingers. "Such a beautiful ceremony. Your mother would be so proud."
"Thank you." The words came out automatically. I'd said them a hundred times already.
Dante stood beside me, solid and warm, accepting his own endless stream of congratulations with the easy authority of a man who had been trained for this since birth. Every few minutes, his hand would brush the small of my back—a touch so light it could have been accidental. It wasn't. Each brush sent a small jolt through me, a reminder that he was there. That whatever was happening, I wasn't facing it alone.
I hated how much that helped.
Donatella materialized at my elbow sometime during the second hour, pressing a glass of champagne into my hand and steering me away from a cluster of elderly aunts who wanted to discuss grandchildren.
"You're doing amazing," she murmured, her arm linked through mine. "Another hour and we can escape to the bridal suite for a break. I've got snacks hidden in my purse. Very classy, very emergency."
I laughed—or tried to. It came out more like a breath.
She stayed close after that. Filling silences with bright chatter that asked nothing in return. Positioning herself between me and Enzo's sightline whenever possible. Playing interference with the skill of someone who had grown up navigating these dangerous waters.
I wanted to hug her. I wanted to cry. I could do neither.
The bar was supposed to be safe. A quick moment to get water, to breathe, to escape the endless press of bodies and expectations. But the moment I stepped away from Donatella's protective orbit, I felt the air change.
