My stomach twists, sinking deeper with each passing second.What am I supposed to do with that? How do I reconcile the man who stared into my soul at the altar with the one who left me standing alone at my own wedding celebration? And where does this loyal brother everyone keeps talking about fit in?
There’s no doubt I’m attracted to Sandro.Who wouldn’t be when every one of the Chiaroscuro brothers is the embodiment of a Roman god chiseled out of granite?But when it comes to his actions—let alone his words—I feel as though he’s more ghost than man.
I nod weakly, forcing a smile I don’t feel. “Good night, Raf.”
He inclines his head politely before turning down the hall, his footsteps fading into silence.
I’m left standing alone in front of the door. My door. My hand trembles as I reach for the handle.
Inside, the room is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of candles on the dresser. Rose petals scatter across the bed, champagne waiting in a silver bucket on the table—it’s beautiful, romantic, the kind of scene little girls dream about when they imagine their wedding night.
But my heart feels heavy, weighed down by the rejection, the loneliness that surrounds me like a cold shroud.
I close the door behind me, lean against it for a moment, and press a hand to my chest. The silk of my gown suddenly feels too tight, the jewels at my throat like shackles.
I should be preparing myself, anticipating the moment my husband walks through that door. Instead, I peel off my shoes with shaking hands, set them neatly by the wall, and sit at the edge of the bed.
The silence is deafening.
My thoughts race, tangled with Raf’s words, my mother’s warnings, my own fears. About children I’ll never have. About being unwanted, replaceable. About Sandro’s absence.
What if this is it? What if this marriage was only ever about politics, and I’m nothing more than a name and a body filling a role he doesn’t care about?
I bury my face in my hands, fighting against the sting in my eyes. I won’t cry—not tonight. Not when I’ve already played the perfect bride for everyone else.
Lifting my head, I force myself to breathe and glance at the door again.
He’ll come. He has to. Raf promised.
But as my self-doubt settles in, a hollow ache in my chest whispers otherwise.
7
SANDRO
The second fight ends with blood in my mouth—his, not mine—and my left cheek bone throbbing from the hook I didn’t dodge fast enough. I wipe the blood off my knuckles, smearing it across the thighs of my dress pants. Chest heaving, sweat dripping from the tip of my hair and creating a healthy sheen across my skin, I stare down at my unconscious opponent.
The crowd roars, stamping their boots on the floor, fists pumping. Money exchanges hands, curses and cheers mixing into a single violent hymn. I feel alive, stripped down to nothing but instinct. And in the wake of my victory, I feel the tingling sense of someone watching me.
Head snapping up, I scan the crowd, making my way back to the shadows of the dank cement walls. Then I see him. Raf. He’s leaning against the far wall, arms folded, expression carved from stone. He doesn’t cheer, doesn’t clap. He just stares at me with that twin gaze I’ve known my whole life, the one that sees through my mess even when I’d rather he didn’t.
I taste copper and spit onto the ground, then wipe the blood from my lips. The reprieve is over. “Enough for tonight,” I mutter to the ref, tapping out before anyone else can step into the ring. My body wants more, but I’m not stupid. Raf’s here to collect me, and if I make him wait, I’ll never hear the end of it.
The crowd boos, some laughing, some throwing taunts.
“Already quittin’, Chiaroscuro? Thought ya Italians had more stamina than that!”
“Going home to yer missus, eh? Maybe she’s found someone to replace ya while you’ve been screwing us!”
“Next time, make better bets,” I cut back sharply. “You should know by now that I don’t lose.”
The laughter cuts sharply through the room as Liam’s friends hoot and jeer over my comeback. I step out of the ring, grab my discarded shirt, and tug it back on, ignoring the ache in my ribs. My cheek is swelling fast—I can already see it purpling out of the corner of my eye—and I know I’ll have a hell of a shiner by morning.
Raf pushes off the wall when I approach. He doesn’t bother hiding the disappointment in his face.
“Let’s go,” he says flatly.
I follow without protest.
