"The Italian compound. Family gathering." He adjusts his cufflinks with sharp, precise movements that speak of barely controlled tension. "My father wants to meet you properly."
The way he says father makes it sound like he is talking about an upcoming root canal rather than a family dinner.
"Okay," I say slowly, uncurling from the bed. "What's the dress code?"
"Conservative. Respectful. Traditional." His eyes flick over me—currently wearing leggings and one of Gabriel's t-shirts I may have also stolen. "You need to look like a proper Italian wife."
There is an edge to his voice that I have not heard before, something sharp and strained that makes the air in the room feel heavier.
"Dante—"
"Twenty minutes, Rosalina." He turns and walks away before I can finish the sentence, his footsteps echoing down the hallway with military precision.
I stare at the empty doorway for a long moment, trying to process the tension radiating off him in waves, before I launch myself into action.
Conservative. Respectful. Traditional.
I have exactly one outfit that fits that description—a navy blue dress with a modest neckline and sleeves that go to my elbows, hem that falls just below my knees. It is the kind of dress Seamus would approve of for formal Irish functions, which hopefully translates to Italian family gatherings.
I change quickly, my hands shaking slightly as I zip up the back, twisting my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck, adding small pearl earrings that belonged to my mother—one of the few things I have from before the orphanage. Minimal makeup. Sensible shoes. I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back—polished and proper and nothing like the girl who was dancing in the kitchen yesterday making sandwiches.
I make it downstairs with two minutes to spare.
Dante is waiting by the front door, and when he sees me his expression shifts slightly—some of the tension easing from his shoulders as his eyes travel over me from head to toe, lingering on the pearls, the modest neckline, the careful way I have presented myself.
"Good," he says simply, offering his arm.
I take it, feeling the corded tension in his muscles even through the expensive fabric of his suit, and we walk to the car in silence.
The drive to the Italian compound takes forty-five minutes, and Dante does not speak for any of them.
He sits beside me in the back of the town car, staring out the window with his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His hands are fisted on his thighs, knuckles white with pressure, and every few minutes he takes a deliberate breath like he is counting to ten in his head, like he is trying to prevent himself from exploding.
I have never seen him like this—this wound up, this barely controlled, this close to shattering.
"Dante," I say quietly, reaching out to touch his arm.
He flinches slightly at the contact, then seems to force himself to relax, turning to look at me with eyes that are stormy and dark and full of something that looks uncomfortably close to dread. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." The words come out clipped, automatic, a lie we both know he is telling.
"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to put your fist through something."
His jaw works for a moment before he answers, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. "My father has that effect on people."
"Do you want to talk about?—"
"No." He turns back to the window, effectively ending the conversation, his shoulders rigid as stone.
I withdraw my hand and fold both of them in my lap, staring down at my pearl earrings reflected in the dark screen of my phone. The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable, and I find myself wishing Gabriel or Luca were here to break the tension with a joke or a flirtatious comment or literally anything other than this suffocating quiet.
The car slows, turns into a long driveway flanked by iron gates that swing open automatically. The compound spreads out before us—massive and imposing, all stone and sharp angles and windows that look like eyes watching our approach. Guards are positioned at regular intervals along the perimeter, and I count at least six just from what I can see from the car.
This is not a home. This is a fortress.
"Remember," Dante says as the car comes to a stop, and his voice is harder now, colder, stripped of anything soft, "you are my wife. You represent me. You represent our family. Everything you say, everything you do, reflects on both of us."
