“Already am,” she murmurs.
“Not yet. Not the way it counts.” I pull her tighter against me. “But tomorrow, in front of everyone, you’ll be mine and I’ll be yours. No contracts. No arrangements. Just us.”
She hums. Her fingers lace through mine over her stomach. Her breathing deepens and she’s gone, asleep in seconds, trusting me with the full slack of her body.
Cristo.This woman.
I lie there in the dark, holding her, listening to her breathe.
Tomorrow she walks down the aisle in my mother’s garden and says vows that mean something. Tomorrow I stand across from her and make promises I intend to keep with every drop of blood in my body.
The compound settles around us. The night deepens. Somewhere, Nonna Rosa sleeps, unaware that her enforced tradition has been broken.
Good. Let the old woman have her peace. She’ll find out in the morning and give me hell, and I’ll take every word of it because this. Cassia’s breath against my palm. Her spine pressed to my chest. This is worth every goddamn lecture.
I shut my eyes.
For once, I don’t dream of the past.
I dream of her. Laughing in the garden, sunlight caught in her hair, turning to look at me like I’m the only thing in the world.
I wake to the first light of dawn, still tangled together on the couch, her heartbeat steady against my palm.
Today.
She becomes my wife. For real this time.
34
CASSIA
I wake to sunlight and the absence of him.
The master bedroom. Our bedroom. He must have carried me here before dawn, because the last thing I remember is the leather couch in the study, his heartbeat against my spine, his arm heavy around my waist.
Tangled sheets that smell like him. His pillow still bearing the indent of his head. The space beside me cooling but not yet cold.
Today I marry him. In front of everyone.
I bury my face in his pillow and breathe deep. Cedar. Something darker underneath, something that’s just him.
A knock at the door. Insistent but not urgent.
“Come in.”
Nonna Rosa enters carrying a tray. Beignets dusted with powdered sugar, fresh fruit, coffee steaming in a porcelain cup. She’s wearing her best dress, silver hair pinned up, eyes bright and brimming.
“Today’s the day,cher.” She sets the tray on the nightstand, then perches on the edge of the bed. “You ready?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?” She swats my arm. “Girl, you supposed to be sure. This ain’t a maybe kind of mornin’.”
I laugh. Sit up against the headboard, reach for the coffee. “I’m sure. I’m just nervous.”
“Mais,of course you nervous. You marryin’ the Don of New Orleans in front of God and everybody.” Nonna Rosa’s voice softens. “But I seen the way that boy looks at you. Like you hung every star in the sky. Like you the only thing keepin’ him breathin’.”
“Nonna Rosa.”
