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"Never," Jamie grins, nodding at Romeo before leading Elizabeth out through the double doors.
Romeo rises from his chair, walking around the glass table until stopping at my side. He reaches down, catching my small hands in his, pulling me up out of my seat.
I step into his chest, arms wrapping naturally around his tapered waist, my cheek resting against his sternum. I let out a long, shuddering sigh of raw relief, my body finally softening into complete peace.
"It's over, Romeo," I whisper against his shirt. "The church. The debt. The war. It's all over."
"It's over, Kitten," he rumbles, resting his chin against my red curls and wrapping his arms around my back to hold me against his heart. "You're safe. You're free. And you hold the keys to this entire city."
I tilt my face up, my cloudy green eyes wide open as I look up toward his voice.
"I don't need the city, Romeo," I say softly, my fingers sliding up to frame his strong jaw, thumbs tracing his lips. "I only need you."
TWENTY-EIGHT
IRIS
Three months after the fires in the Catskills burned out, we brought the entire underworld to its knees in Palermo.
My father had a proper headstone carved in Queens beside my mother, paid for by the O'Connor syndicate and guarded by Messina soldiers. Danny died a broken man with whiskey in his veins, but he died knowing his daughter would never bow to the church again.
Our wedding was not a quiet, private apology. It was an armed coronation.
The cathedral of Santa Maria had stood in Sicily for six hundred years, its limestone pillars stained by smoke and centuries of incense. On our wedding day, every pew was packed with capos, underbosses, and foreign delegates from across Europe and the Americas. The Moretti family sat on the left, Don Moretti with his jaw clenched so tight I could hear the grinding from five paces away, his daughter Gianna glaring at the floor with her bandaged wrist hidden beneath a lace shawl. On the right sat my brother Jamie, flanked by twelve of our roughest dock enforcers from Boston and Edinburgh, wearing tailored black suits with green silk ties.
Beside Jamie stood Victor Reznikov, six foot seven of Russian Bratva steel, his arm wrapped possessively around Gemma's tiny waist. Gemma wore gold lamé, sipping champagne from a flask she had smuggled past the priests, winking as I passed her pew.
I did not wear white.
White was for victims. White was for the lambs the church tied to wooden altars to bleed out in the dark.
I wore scarlet silk.
The gown was custom spun in Florence, clinging to my hips and waist like wax, pooling behind me in a six-foot train of pure crimson. The neckline dipped low between my breasts, framing the black diamond collar Romeo had fastened with his own hands that morning. The back was cut clean to the base of my spine, and the slit along my left thigh showed the edge of a lace garter holding a pearl-handled stiletto.
My hair was a fiery crown of thick auburn curls pinned with emerald brooches.
And across my eyes, I wore nothing at all.
No sunglasses. No silk ribbons. No blindfold to shield the curious stares of the men and women who thought blindness meant helplessness. The silver web of scar tissue framing my green eyes caught the candlelight, glittering like war medals across my cheekbones.
Sofia walked beside me on a braided crimson lead, her brass studded collar gleaming in the candlelight. She guided my heels down the long marble aisle, stepping over scattered red rose petals, her pacing perfect and steady.
At the end of the aisle, standing before the altar of gold and marble, stood Romeo.
He wore a custom black tuxedo of Italian wool, crisp and immaculate, with no tie and his top buttons open, the black ink of his family tattoos creeping up his throat. His coal-black eyes tracked every step I took down that aisle, burning with a feverish devotion that made the air between us feel ten degrees hotter than the rest of the cathedral.
When I reached the altar steps, he did not wait for the priest to finish his Latin preamble.
Romeo stepped down to meet me, taking my gloved left hand in his large, scarred palm. He took his time sliding my glove off, never looking away from me. He brought my fingers to his mouth, pressing a hard, reverent kiss directly against the emerald ring on my fourth finger, then to the jagged scar running across my palm.
"You look like a war goddess, Donna Messina," he murmured for my ears alone, his voice a low, gravelly purr that made heat rush straight down to my thighs.
"You look like you're ready to execute half the front row, Don Messina," I whispered back with a tiny, wicked smile.
"I might," he agreed softly, his thumb caressing my wrist. "Gianna is breathing too loud. I can have Tony silence her before the reception if you want."
"Let her watch," I replied, tilting my chin. "I want her to see who owns you."
