But the more they cracked, the more I knew I had to rebuild them.
I had to remember what powerful men were capable of, what they really wanted, what lay beneath the charm and the gentleness and the soft expressions.
But when Dante appeared at my elbow to lead me to the car that would take us to our new home, and his hand settled on the small of my back with that same warm steadiness, I leaned into it anyway.
TheCarusoresidencewasquiet after the chaos of the reception. Our footsteps echoed on marble floors as Dante led me through hallways I didn't recognize, past paintings and doorways and the accumulated evidence of generations of family history.
My heart pounded harder with every step.
I knew what was expected. I'd prepared myself for it during the long hours of the reception, steeling my nerves while I smiled and laughed and performed the role of the happy bride. The wedding night was a transaction, like everything else in this marriage. I would give him my body because that's what mafia wives did. I would lie back and think of alliances and bloodlines and the duty I'd been raised to fulfill.
I would survive it.
Dante opened a door at the end of the hallway—the master suite, I assumed—and stepped aside to let me enter. The roomwas beautiful. Warm wood tones and rich fabrics, a massive bed dominating the space, windows that looked out over the Chicago skyline glittering in the darkness.
Our suite now. Our bed.
I walked to the center of the room and stood there, my hands clasped in front of me, my chin lifted. Waiting. Bracing.
But Dante didn't reach for me.
He crossed to the window instead, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the city lights. His hands came up and loosened his tie, pulling it free with a gesture that was more exhausted than seductive. He draped it over a chair and stood there for a moment, his back to me, his breathing carefully controlled.
When he turned around, his expression was unreadable.
"I'm not going to touch you tonight."
The words hit me like cold water.
I stared at him. Something twisted in my chest—confusion, yes, but underneath it, something that felt horribly, shamefully like rejection. I'd spent hours preparing myself to endure his touch, and now he was telling me he didn't want it?
"You don't—" I started, and hated how small my voice sounded. "You don't want—"
"I want."
His voice was rough. Almost harsh. Like the words were being dragged out of him against his will.
"Believe me, Gemma, I want." He took a step closer, then stopped himself, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "The way you looked in that dress. The way you felt when I kissed you. The sounds you made—" He broke off. Breathed. When he spoke again, his voice was more controlled, but barely. "I want. That's not the issue."
I didn't understand. My head was spinning, all my carefully constructed expectations crumbling into dust.
"Then why—"
"Because you don't know me." He crossed his arms over his chest, and I realized it was a protective gesture. He was guarding himself. "We've barely spoken. You've known me for less than a week, and half of that time you thought I was a cold bastard who couldn't string a sentence together."
Heat flooded my cheeks. That was exactly what I'd thought.
"And I won't—" He stopped again. That muscle in his jaw was ticking, the same tension I'd seen at the altar. "I will never take something from you that you haven't freely chosen to give."
The words settled into the space between us. Heavy. Significant.
"When we share a bed," he continued, and his dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made my breath catch, "it will be because you want me. Not because you think you owe me. Not because you're afraid of what happens if you refuse. Not because duty or obligation or family honor says you should." His voice dropped, softened, became something almost tender. "When I touch you, it will be because you've asked me to. Because you want my hands on you. Because you've chosen me, freely, knowing exactly who and what I am."
I couldn't speak. My throat had closed around emotions I couldn't name.
"Until then—" He moved toward a door I hadn't noticed, on the far side of the room. "Come with me."
I followed him on legs that felt unsteady. He opened the door to reveal another room—smaller than the master suite, but beautiful. Soft blue walls. White linens. Fresh flowers on the nightstand, and a window that looked out over the garden below. Someone had decorated it with obvious care.
