He’s left the car idling at the curb, Miko’s midnight Mustang just daring someone to touch it. But no one will. Everyone in Chicago knows they’d lose a hand at the very least if they tried to steal Miko’s car.
The fact that Raf came to get me himself is a statement in and of itself. No one knows I’m gone—and he wants to keep it that way. But the clock reads nearly midnight. Which means I missed my grand send-off. Good thing I have a built-in doppelganger. With Raf there, I doubt anybody even noticed I went missing.
The ride is quiet at first as Raf drives like he does everything else—controlled, precise, no wasted motion. But I can feel the storm brewing under his skin, and it doesn’t take long before it cracks.
“You left your bride,” he says, his voice sharp. “On your wedding night. Do you realize how that looks?”
Leaning my head back against the seat, I stare up at the roof. “I realize.”
“Do you? Because right now, the revenge we’re after for what they did to us, to Father, to… Genevieve—” Raf’s voice turns strangled as he chokes on the name, and I immediately feel like a terrible brother for making him babysit me when he’s still grieving. “It all hangs on this marriage, Sandro. On you. And you disappear before the ink is even dry?” His grip tightens on the wheel. “Christ.”
I don’t argue. There’s no point.
Raf’s always seen the bigger picture. He gets the subtle chess moves that come with playing the mafia game. Honestly, if anyone was born to lead our family, it’s Raf. But until now, that was never even a consideration. And with Leo’s abdication and Gio rejecting the title of Don, the responsibility to reclaim our family’s empire has fallen rather abruptly on Raf’s shoulders.
I can see it crushing him, shaping him into something more brutal as the burden becomes the rock, his grief, the hard place.He can’t do this alone. He shouldn’t have to, which means I need to get my act together. And Raf clearly needs to vent, so I let him.
“You’ve got duties,” he presses, his voice lower now, controlled but edged with frustration. “If we want to make this alliance legitimate, you need to start by doing what’s expected of a husband. Like taking your wife to bed on your wedding night.”
I close my eyes, exhale slowly. “I know.”
The words hang between us. Raf wants me to say more, but I don’t.
Silence stretches until he finally shakes his head, muttering, “Always so damn stubborn.”
A faint smirk touches my lips. “Funny. I thought that was you.”
That earns me a glance, and Raf’s expression is caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
He sighs, the sound heavy, like he’s carrying the whole damn world. And maybe he is.
He never thought he’d have to step up like this, never thought Father would die so soon, that Leo would abandon his birthright, or that our empire would fall apart overnight. But he’s holding us together, piece by piece, even if it costs him sleep—even if it carves him hollow.
“You’ll do fine,” I say finally, my voice quiet but steady as I speak to the worry I know without asking is weighing on his mind. “You’re the best man for the job. The only one who can pull us out of this mess.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue, and we ride the rest of the way in silence.
The Novikov estate looms ahead as we pull up to the iron gates. Guards with rifles grant us access through the stone walls that make the place feel more fortress than home. For now, it’s where we live—where I’ll live with my new wife until we reclaim what’s ours and rebuild the Chiaroscuro estate.
I step out of the car, every muscle aching, my bruised cheek throbbing. Raf doesn’t follow me in—he has to sneak the Mustang back into the garage before anyone notices it’s missing.
“Don’t fuck this up,” he says simply before pulling away.
I watch the taillights fade, then turn toward the house.
The hall is quiet as I climb the stairs, my steps heavy against the marble. The adrenaline from the fights is wearing off, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion and that familiar gnawing hunger—the one nothing seems to fill.
But when I push open the door to the room, everything stops.
Someone’s decorated the bed and floor with rose petals. A bottle of champagne sits chilling on ice. And something inside me dies a little at the thought that it might have been my wife. The woman I’ve left waiting for God only knows how long.
Evelina is sitting on the ledge of the bay window, her knees pulled up to her chest, her cheek resting lightly against them. The soft moonlight spills over her golden skin, and her hair falls in soft chestnut waves down to her waist, like a curtain of silk waiting to be brushed away from her face. The wedding gown is gone, replaced by delicate white lace that clings to her curves and traces the line of her thighs. Instead of the black leather I’m used to seeing girls wear at the club, Evelina has silk ribbon garters to hold up her sheer stockings, the lacy tops tied up withbows. Every inch of her is soft and feminine, innocent in a way I’ve never known.
And God, but I want her.
Is that what she’s been wearing under her dress all day long?
My chest tightens, the air catching in my lungs. If I’d known, I’m not sure I could have made it through the reception without losing my mind completely. I never should have left.
