"I understand," I say, even though the pressure of that statement makes my chest tight, makes it harder to breathe.
"Do you?" He turns to look at me fully now, and there is something almost desperate in his eyes beneath the ice, something pleading. "Because my father will look for any weakness, any crack, any reason to dismiss you as unworthy. And if he finds one?—"
"He won't," I interrupt, lifting my chin and meeting his gaze with as much confidence as I can muster. "I know how to play this game, Dante. I was trained for it."
For the Irish princess, a small voice in my head reminds me. You were trained to protect Erin in situations exactly like this. Not to be the one being evaluated.
But I shove that thought down deep and meet Dante's gaze without wavering.
Something in his expression softens fractionally, and he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair that has escaped my bun behind my ear. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
The driver opens my door, and Dante is immediately there, offering his hand to help me out. I take it, and the moment my feet hit the gravel he tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, holding it there with his other hand like he is afraid I might bolt, like I am the only thing keeping him tethered.
We walk toward the entrance together, and I can feel eyes on us from every window, every shadow. Guards are stationed at intervals along the path, and they all watch us pass with expressions that give nothing away, faces carved from granite.
The front door opens before we reach it, and a woman appears—tall and elegant, probably in her late fifties, wearing a cream-colored dress and pearls that probably cost more than a car. Her light hair is streaked with silver and pulled back in a sleekchignon, and when she sees Dante her entire face lights up with the kind of joy only mothers possess.
"Dante!" She descends the steps with her arms outstretched, and Dante releases me to embrace her, his entire posture changing—softening in a way I have never seen, the rigid lines of his body melting into something almost boyish.
"Mama," he murmurs into her hair. There is a rare, genuine warmth in his voice—an affection that makes my chest ache with a sudden, sharp envy.
She pulls back, cupping his face in her hands and studying him with that terrifyingly focused attention only mothers possess. "You look tired, Dante. Are they feeding you properly at that house, or is Gabriel making you live on espresso and spite?"
"I'm fine, Mama."
"You are never fine. You are always working too hard." She taps his cheekbone with a final, lingering caress before her gaze shifts to me. Her smile widens, transforming into something radiant and disarming. "And this must be the beautiful Rosalina."
"Rosalina, this is my mother, Alessandra Salvatore," Dante says. His hand finds the small of my back, his palm heavy and grounding as he guides me forward.
"It is an honor to meet you, Alessandra," I say. I start to reach out a hand, my mind reciting the formal protocols Seamus drilled into me. "I am so sorry we didn't have the chance to speak at the wedding. The chaos of the day?—"
Alessandra ignores my hand entirely and pulls me into a lush, fragrant embrace. She smells of expensive silk and crushed lavender.
"Do not apologize,cara," she says into my ear, her voice a soothing velvet. "I do not blame you for the lack of an introduction. I blame the Irish 'honor guard' for keeping you on such a tight leash, and my son for his lack of patience."
She pulls back, keeping her hands on my shoulders. "The O'Connor men stood around you like a wall of stone all afternoon. And the moment they finally let you breathe, my son whisked you away before I could even find my coat. It was very romantic, I suppose, but his manners were atrocious."
I feel a startled laugh bubble up in my throat. "I suppose that is one way to describe it."
"Come," Alessandra says, linking her arm through mine as if we’ve been confidantes for years. "Let me introduce you to the rest of the family before you are thrown to the wolves."
She leads me into the heart of the compound. It’s a temple of marble and crystal, museum-grade art hanging on the walls like silent witnesses. In the formal sitting room, the air is thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and vintage wine. Men in razor-sharp suits and women in elegant silk turn as one, their eyes evaluating me with the cold precision of jewelers looking for a flaw.
I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of O'Connor pride I have left.
"Everyone," Alessandra announces, her voice commanding the room without effort. "This is Rosalina, Dante's wife."
The silence that follows is heavy, a dozen silent judgments hanging in the air. But before the scrutiny can turn into an interrogation, Alessandra steers me toward a quiet alcove by the windows, settling us onto a velvet settee. She takes my handsin hers; her eyes are the same oceanic blue as Dante’s, but the storm has been replaced by a steady, searching heat.
"My son thinks he is subtle," she says softly, squeezing my fingers. "But I am his mother. I know that wedding was a cage for you, and I know Dante stole you away because he was too 'intense' to wait for the reception."
She rolls her eyes with an affectionate sigh. "The Salvatore men are all the same. When they want something, they take it. Subtlety is a foreign language to them."
"I have noticed that," I admit, my voice barely a whisper.
Alessandra’s expression shifts, her eyes narrowing as she scans my face for things I’m trying to hide. "Tell me the truth,cara. How are they treating you? Dante, Gabriel, Luca... are they being gentlemen, or are they being monsters?"
The question catches me off guard, and I hesitate, trying to figure out how much she actually knows about the arrangement.
