I look at the three of them. My grandmother. My sister. My second-in-command. United against me over a superstition I don’t believe in.
“Fine.”
Nonna beams. Giada pats my arm like I’m a child who just agreed to eat his vegetables. Renzo’s mouth twitches, which for him is laughter.
Cazzo.Outnumbered in my own home.
I grab a pillow from the hall closet and head for the study.
Going to be a long goddamn night.
The study is quiet in a way the rest of the compound isn’t. Papa’s books line the walls. The maps I’ve stared at since I took over hang in their frames. The silence presses in, deliberate, like the room is holding its breath along with me.
I haven’t touched the whiskey. Cassia would worry if she smelled it on me tomorrow. And I want to remember everything. Every word of the vows. Every expression on her face. Every second of the moment she becomes mine in front of everyone who ever doubted either of us.
The leather chair creaks as I shift. I should try to sleep.
I won’t.
The door opens.
She’s wearing one of my shirts. The white one, too big for her, hanging past her thighs. Bare feet on the hardwood. Hair loose around her shoulders, dark waves catching the lamplight.
Tesoro.The word rises before I can stop it. Treasure. Standing in my doorway like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know.” She closes the door behind her. Leans against it. “I don’t care.”
Neither do I.
“Nonna Rosa will have my head if she finds out.”
“Nonna Rosa’s asleep.” Cassia pushes off the door, crosses the room, settles onto the arm of my chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I checked.”
“Reconnaissance.” I pull her down into my lap, and she comes willingly, curling against my chest. “Thorough.”
“I learned from the best.”
We sit like that. Her warmth against me. Her heartbeat steady beneath my palm.
Tomorrow this woman becomes my wife. Again. For real this time.
“Do you remember the first time you walked into this room?” I ask.
She laughs, low and warm. “Burgundy dress. Shaking hands. Trying not to let you see how terrified I was.”
“You weren’t shaking.”
“I was on the inside.” She tilts her head up. “You looked at me like I was a problem you hadn’t anticipated.”
“You were.” I brush a strand of hair from her face. “The most beautiful problem I’ve ever had.”
“Flatterer.”
“Truth.” I trace the line of her jaw. “I thought I knew what I was getting. A replacement bride. A business arrangement. Someone to fill a role.”
