20. Pietro #2
She huffs. “You don’t know that. What if they don’t like me?”
I smirk. “I know they will love you. Relax,” I murmur, sliding my hand along her thigh.
She gives me a sharp look. “I am relaxed.”
I smirk. “Prove it.”
She narrows her eyes. “And how exactly do you expect me to do that?”
I lean in, my voice low. “Take them off.”
Her brows furrow. “Take what off?”
“You know what. ”
She inhales heavily. “Pietro?—”
“Now.”
She glares at me, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes—a challenge.
I watch as she shifts in her seat, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her dress. A second later, she’s dragging the lacy panties down her shapely legs. I don’t take my eyes off her as she balls the fabric in her fist and shoves it into my hand.
“Good girl.”
I grin. I sniff them before slipping them into my pocket. She exhales sharply, turning toward the window, pretending to ignore me. But the blush creeping up her neck gives her away.
When we pull up to the mansion, she lets out a breath she’s been holding for miles, her eyes widening as the estate comes into view. Sprawling across ten lush acres, the property evokes the grandeur of a forgotten era—its old-world architecture is more reminiscent of a castle than a home.
I chuckle because she can’t pretend she’s not affected by the magnificence. Joseph stops the Hummer, and I step out, giving Amara my hand for support as she climbs out.
The salty air of the island rides inland on the spring wind, hitting us the moment we step into the plush surroundings. Even though it’s not summer, I can’t help but admire the manicured lawn, still neat and green in its off-season elegance.
We walk across the terracotta-colored pavers toward the house, and I tug gently on Amara’s arm, a rush of excitement bubbling up. This is my first time introducing my woman to everyone at our family gathering.
Just as I reach for the side door to the kitchen, it swings open. Federico stands there.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Pietro,” he says, his voice stern and professional—at first. Then he breaks into a smile, and we pull each other into a hug.
“Federico, it’s been forever!”
“Welcome back,” he says, pulling away .
Thanks. And this,” I rest a hand on Amara’s lower back, gently guiding her inside, “is Amara.”
“A pleasure, welcome,” Federico says, grasping her hands in both of his as he gives them a hearty shake.
Matteo is the next to greet us, his smirk firmly in place. “Look who finally decided to bring a woman home.”
Amara casts me a sidelong glance, her lips twitching with dry amusement. “They’re going to make this weird, aren’t they?
“Yes.”
She lets out a mock sigh, a grin tugging at her lips. “Great.”
Inside, the house is loud with voices and laughter that echo through the halls. The Borrelli women welcome Amara instantly, pulling her into conversation and fussing over her like she belongs here.
The house thrums with the golden hum of celebration, a merriment rich enough to rival a holiday feast in the Italian countryside.
Laughter spills through the arched doorways like fine champagne while the scent of herb-crusted lamb drifts seductively through the halls—its savory perfume mingling with the smoky warmth of the fireplace crackles.
Crystal glints under candlelight. Velvet shadows dance along the walls.
Outside, beneath a canopy of party lights, Federico—ever the culinary maestro—commands the stone grill with quiet authority.
He stands framed by the open French doors, his silhouette framed by the mixture of steam and smoke swirling around him.
With a flick of his wrist, he bastes the meat with the precision of a man who knows not just how to cook but also how to conquer hearts with his mouthwatering recipes.
Inside, conversations flow easily, accompanied by the clink of glassware and the soft hum of piano keys in the distance. There is warmth. There is peace. And yet, beneath it all, a quiet watchfulness lingers—as if even in joy, the Italians remember the cost of happiness.
Amara sits among the women, surrounded by my brothers’ wives and children. Her posture is slightly stiff, but I can tell she’s trying to fit in. But she has nothing to fear. They’ve already taken to her, as I knew they would.
Bianca, always the firecracker, leans forward with a smirk. “So, how exactly did my brother convince you to come here? Bribery? Blackmail?”
Amara gives her a flat look. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Everyone chuckles as Siobhan, Niccoló’s wife, shakes her head. “Ignore her. She’s been insufferable since she returned from Switzerland.”
Bianca gasps, her eyes widening in mock outrage. “ How dare you! ” she exclaims, one hand flying to her chest like a heroine in a vintage film. Her lips curve into a pout, eyes glinting with mischief as she bats her lashes with dramatic flair.
“I’ve been delightful ,” she insists, her voice honeyed with faux innocence as she grabs imaginary pearls and bats her lashes like the very image of virtue—though the glint of her smile says otherwise.
She’s the kind of woman who pretends to be the easy one…
but everyone in the room knows she’s the storm you never see coming.
Alena, Matteo’s wife, sips her wine, glancing between Amara and me with quiet curiosity. “Well, however it happened, he got you here, and it’s good to see someone is finally keeping him on his toes.”
Amara laughs. “Oh, he’s impossible.”
Siobhan leans in conspiratorially. “They all are. It’s a Borrelli trait. Just nod, smile, and do whatever the fuck you want.”
I scoff, arching a brow and schooling my features into playful disdain. “I’m right here, you know,” I mutter in a voice that is as dry as aged vodka. The fire in her gaze dares me to keep going.
Then her grin spreads—wicked and knowing.
And the game, as always, is on.
Siobhan waves a hand. “Oh, we know.”
Amara smirks, taking a sip of her wine. She’s relaxing, and I like seeing her like this, surrounded by my loving and colorful family.
One of the kids—Lorenzo, Matteo’s son—climbs into Amara’s lap without hesitation, showing her a wooden plane. “Oook!” he says.
Amara takes it, inspecting it seriously. “This is incredible. Do you fly it?”
Lorenzo shakes his head. “No. ”
“Not yet,” Matteo’s voice chimes in from where he’s stroking the fire in the fireplace. “I’m working on a prototype.”
Amara laughs, and I watch as she stands and hoists the boy onto her hip like she’s been doing it forever.
Something settles deep inside me. I lean down, my voice low, murmuring, “You’re good with them.”
She looks up, her expression unreadable. “I like kids.”
“Would you want one?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Yes.”
That one word— yes —slips from her lips like a secret, and it strokes something warm deep inside me. Something ancient stirs, something dangerous and undeniably mine . A possessive heat anchors itself in my chest, swelling with every beat of my heart.
She said yes—not to me, not to now, but to someday, to the idea that our future will have the presence of a newborn, with a face and personality that will carry pieces of us both. That’s prolific.
It isn't just hope that settles into my bones. It's a vow. A silent, ruthless promise that I will protect the future that will one day be ours.
And now I don't just want her.
I want forever .
Across the room, Matteo raises a brow. “You look like you’re plotting something,” he says as he looks at me.
I smirk, sipping my whiskey. “Always.”
The conversation drifts into teasing and easy banter as the fire crackles. Federico enters the room, declaring dinner is ready, and we all gather around the large table worthy of the Queen of England. Dinner plates are passed amid the quiet conversations, and fine wine flows freely.
I watch Amara move amongst my family, talking to everyone, and she’s smiling. God, who knew a woman’s smile was such a turn-on?
After dinner, we relax together once again.
This day is sublime, and I never want it to end, and that’s when my nephew stumbles over Amara’s feet.
My heart skips a beat as her eyes meet mine, and she giggles with him before sinking to the floor, pulling Lorenzo into her lap, and tickling him. My heart melts.
She belongs here, with me and with us.