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A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, sending vibrations straight into my palm.

The priest rushed through the sacrament, visibly terrified of the two men standing behind Romeo with their hands resting inside their suit jackets. When the moment came for the vows, Romeo did not read from the parchment the priest offered him.

He took both of my hands in his, his midnight gaze pinning me to the spot.

"I took you from the dark, Iris," Romeo declared, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling for every mafia family in Italy to hear. "I watched over you while you slept, and I built an empire to keep you breathing. From this day until my heart stops beating, my guns are yours, my blood is yours, and every enemy who breathes your name with malice will die screaming at your feet. You are my queen. Questa nostra cosa."

"This thing of ours," I answered clearly, looking straight into his shadowed face. "You gave me fire, Romeo. You gave me back my hands, my art, and my pride. I will stand beside you on this throne, and together we will burn anyone who tries to take what is ours."

When he pulled me into his arms, the kiss was not polite. It was a hungry, possessive claim that had the entire cathedral holding its breath. His mouth parted my lips, tasting of aged scotch and pure victory, his tongue sliding deep to remind me who ruled my body.

EPILOGUE

One Year Later

The scent of sun-warmed jasmine and salt-tinged air drifts through the open French doors of my private studio, mingling with the rich, earthy tang of wet oils.

My brushes dance across the stretched canvas, guided by instinct, memory, and the textured ridges of paint I've laid out on my cedar palette. The painting is massive, five feet tall, depicting the cliffs of Capri collapsing into a swirling tempest of deep blues, seafoam whites, and violent strokes of cadmium red. I recently started adding clays and cement to make my painting more tactile, so I can feel everything I’m painting.

I am still visually impaired. The world remains a hazy tapestry of smoke, shadow, and shifting gray silhouettes, but it is no longer my prison.

It has been a year since our wedding in Palermo. A year since we returned to this cliffside villa, where the sun shines on white stucco walls from dawn until dusk.

And in that year, Romeo has not changed one bit.

He is still the obsessive, psychotic bastard who stole my life, and I wouldn't have him any other way.

Just yesterday, while searching for a fresh sketchpad in his private library, I found a leather-bound folder hidden beneath his desk blotter. Inside were thirty brand new high-resolution photographs of me. I only know because I asked Inga what they were. Pictures of me sleeping on the terrace daybed. Pictures of me laughing with Gemma over video calls. Pictures of me walking along the rocky shoreline with Sofia, taken from a boat anchored two hundred yards out in the bay.

He still watches me. He still tracks my every breath through high-powered lenses and security monitors, unable to stop himself from hoarding every second of my existence. When I confronted him about it at dinner, throwing the photos onto his plate, he merely picked one up, smiled that lazy, dangerous smile of his, and told me that his art was watching mine.

A soft thump on the floorboards behind me, followed by a heavy sigh, announces Sofia's arrival. She pads across the room, resting her warm, sleek chin on my bare knee for a second before curling up on the thick velvet rug by the terrace doors.

Then, the second presence makes itself known.

The air in the studio shifts, warming instantly. The smell of dark roast espresso, Tuscan leather, and that unmistakable bite of cinnamon drifts across the room.

Footsteps approach, silent and unhurried on the limestone tiles.

"You've been standing on those bare feet for three hours, Kitten," Romeo's deep baritone rumbles softly behind me.

His massive arms slide around my waist from behind, his hands splaying wide over the front of my light cotton sundress. His large palms come to rest directly over the heavy, round swell of my seven-month pregnant belly.

I lean my head back against his solid chest with a contented sigh, feeling his heartbeat thudding slow and steady against my shoulder blades. His chin rests in the curve of my neck, his five o'clock shadow rasping against my skin, sending a delicious shiver straight down to my toes.

"I was finishing the sea spray," I murmur, turning my paint-stained cheek toward him.

He turns his head, catching my mouth in a slow, sweet kiss that tastes of dark espresso and honey. His tongue grazes mine with lazy familiarity before he pulls back, his dark eyes trailing over the canvas.

"It's glorious," he whispers against my temple. "Just like you."

His hands move over my belly, his thumbs stroking the tight, stretched skin through the thin cotton. Right beneath his right palm, a sharp, sudden kick presses against his hand.

Romeo goes completely still.

Every single time our baby moves, the Don of the Sicilian mafia freezes like he’s just been shot. His breath catches in his throat, and the ruthless killer who executes traitors without flinching melts into pure, reverent silence.

"Strong kick," he rasps, his voice rough with emotion. "He's restless today."