Page 27
I should argue. Instead, I taste wine on my tongue and think of the way the room went quiet when I stood. Power has a flavor. I am beginning to know it.
The heat of Sicily radiates upward from ancient cobblestones, warming the thin leather soles of my strappy sandals.
Every breath of air here feels heavy with sensory life: roasted espresso beans drifting from open café doorways, crushed citrus leaves from nearby lemon groves, sweet almond paste from pasticcerie, and the crisp, salty bite of the sea wind climbing the cliffs.
For the first time in nearly three years, I am not cowering inside four locked walls.
I am walking through the bustling piazzas of Taormina.
My red hair is caught in a soft, low knot at my nape, letting the bright Sicilian sun kiss the bare skin of my shoulders. I wear a sundress of deep saffron silk that flutters around my calves with every breeze. Over my eyes, I wear dark designer sunglasses rather than my ribbon; Romeo insisted on buying six different pairs from a boutique in Catania, discarding each one until he found frames that fit comfortably over my temples without putting pressure on my scars.
Sofia walks on my left in a custom harness of supple Italian leather. Her body is a warm, solid wall against my leg, guiding me around stone curbs, terracotta planters, and the uneven dips in the centuries-old paving stones with quiet precision.
On my right, keeping his hand curved possessively over my hip, is Romeo.
He doesn't wear a three-piece suit today. He wears dark tailored trousers, loafers without socks, and a black linen button-up with the sleeves rolled past his forearms, leaving his tattooed forearms and calloused wrists bare to the sun. Even dressed down, the man commands the entire street.
I can feel the pedestrians parting before us like water around the prow of a battleship. Men step off the curb with hushed murmurs of Don Messina. Shopkeepers bow their heads from their doorways. Women whisper behind painted fans, their gazes lingering on his tall, six-foot-four silhouette before flicking with nervous curiosity toward the red-haired woman at his side.
"Here," Romeo whispers, his deep voice dropping close to my ear as we pause beneath a canvas awning.
His fingers guide my hand forward until my fingertips touch cool, sculpted marble. It's an ornate fountain, its edges carved with intricate leaves and stone cherubs. The water splashes gently over the rim, cooling my skin with tiny droplets of mist.
"Eighteenth century," he murmurs, his chest brushing against my back as he steps behind me. "The locals call it the Fountain of the Minotaur. Can you feel the horns carved into the stone beneath your ring?"
I trace the cold, curving ridge with my thumb. The texture is rough yet worn smooth by centuries of running water. "It feels ancient."
"Everything in Sicily is ancient, Kitten," he says, his lips brushing against my temple. "Especially the debts."
He presses something cold and crisp into my other hand: a paper cone holding a warm, flaky pastry dusted in powdered sugar. The aroma is heavenly, with sweet ricotta, orange zest, and pistachio.
"Eat," he commands softly. "You skipped lunch because you were too busy glaring at me across the terrace."
"I was glaring at you because you confiscated my sketchpad," I retort, but I bite into the cannoli anyway. The pastry shatters with a satisfying crunch, the velvety cream melting over my tongue with a rich citrus sweetness that makes me hum in pure delight.
Romeo chuckles, a dark, low sound vibrating against my spine. "You were trying to sketch the harbor guards' patrol routes, Iris. I admire the tactical mindset, but I'm not letting my wife plot a prison break while I'm taking her on a date."
"It's not a date when your armed security detail is following ten paces behind us," I murmur around another bite of the pastry, nodding slightly toward the rhythmic scrape of heavy shoes behind us.
"Enzo and Tony are here for crowd control," he replies smoothly, his hand sliding around my waist to pull me tighter against his flank. "I don't like strangers breathing too close to your skin."
We stroll through the piazza for another hour, Romeo taking his time, describing the pastel hues of the cliffside villas, the shimmering turquoise of the sea far below, and the smoke rising from Mount Etna on the distant horizon. He guides my hands over carved wooden doors, wrought iron balconies, and ancient Roman brickwork, translating the world into textures and scents until the darkness behind my sunglasses feels full and vibrant.
He spoils me with an intensity that borders on madness. He buys me wild strawberries from a street cart, a bottle of cold jasmine water, and a hand-carved comb of dark olive wood that he slips into my pocket with a kiss to my knuckles.
It is easy to forget who he is. It is easy to lean into his warmth, to laugh when Sofia steals a scrap of prosciutto from a butcher's stall, and to pretend that we are just an ordinary couple lost in the romantic haze of an Italian afternoon.
Then the car arrives.
A black armored Mercedes pulls up to the edge of the stone terrace with a quiet hiss of hydraulic suspension. Tony steps out from the driver's seat, his face grim, his hand resting casually inside his jacket where his holster sits.
"Time, Don," Tony says in low Italian. "The coastal families have assembled at the cellar in Castelmola. Don Russo and the Syracusa distributors are already inside."
The easy, sensual warmth radiating off Romeo vanishes in a heartbeat.
His posture stiffens into solid granite. The relaxed lover disappears, replaced by the apex predator who rules an empire of blood and contraband.
He opens the car door, lifting me gently inside before Sofia leaps in behind us. Romeo slides in beside me, pulling the heavy armored door shut with a solid, vault-like thud.
