Chapter 7
Birdie
I had a cat that could tell the weather was about to change when I was little. She’d look up at the sky and meow for hours until it started raining or snowing. Today, I feel like that cat. There’s something in the air that has me on edge. And I don’t know what it is.
The day passes as all the others. Breakfast with Teresa, lunch and dinner rush, but Dante arrives just before closing. He usually doesn’t come on Tuesdays.
He surprises me by saying, “We should go to Bari tonight. For dinner.”
I glance up at him, thrown. “Why?”
He lifts a shoulder casually. “Do I need a reason to take a friend out for dinner?”
“No.” I wipe my hands on my apron, though they’re not really dirty. “But my gut says this is more than dinner.”
His lips twitch at that, just enough to confirm I’m not wrong.
“Indeed,” he says. “Be ready by seven. And wear a dress. The place we’re going has a dress code.”
Something flutters in my chest and for a brief, reckless second, I feel… normal.
“I don’t have a dress,” I call after him.
“There’s one in your room,” he tosses back, already heading for the door.
I blink, then look over at Teresa, who’s smiling like she’s been in on this the whole time.
“He’s up to something, isn’t he?” I ask.
She just hums, stirring her coffee, her eyes dancing with quiet amusement.
I exhale slowly, pressing a hand to my stomach without thinking. Excitement buzzes under my skin. The idea of getting dressed up, of sitting at a table with candlelight and conversation that isn’t whispered or careful… it pulls at something in me I thought I’d buried.
But the feeling doesn’t come alone.
It never does.
Because going to Bari means people. Eyes. Possibility. It means stepping out of the small, safe pocket I’ve built here and into a world where I could be seen. Or worse. Found.
My fingers tighten slightly against the fabric of my apron.
“Okay,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “Just dinner.”
Just one night. One night where I can remember what it feels like to live… even if part of me is already bracing for everything to go wrong.
The dress is simple—black, soft fabric that skims my body without clinging—but when I look in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize myself.
It makes me feel… beautiful. Like the version of me that existed before everything shattered might still be in there somewhere.
It’s loose enough to hide the gentle curve of my stomach.
My hand lingers there for a moment before I force it away.
I curl my hair and the unfamiliar reflection staring back at me feels steadier than I expect. My makeup is light.
When I step into the living room, Dante is already waiting.
He’s dressed in black. For a second, we just look at each other.
“You look beautiful, Juliette,” he says.
Something warm flickers in my chest.
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I reply, smiling.
He holds out his hand. I don’t even think about it—I just take it and let him lead me.
“You know,” I say as we step outside, the cool evening air brushing over my skin, “I think you might be my first real friend since Sienna passed away.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. But they’re true.
He glances down at me, something softer moving through his expression. “Same.”
I blink. “What? You mean a Mafia Don isn’t surrounded by friends?”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “If anyone around me calls themselves a friend, I assume they’re lying. Present company excluded.”
That makes my smile widen.
We reach his car at the edge of town. The streets are quieter here, shadows stretching long under the dim streetlights. He opens the door for me, one hand steady at my back as I slide inside.
He circles the car and gets in, the engine humming to life beneath us.
“I made us a reservation at one of my favorite places,” he says, glancing over. “I hope you like it.”
“As long as there’s no steak, I’m fine,” I tease.
The truth is less funny. Steak—and anything remotely heavy—has been turning my stomach lately. You know, just the good old morning sickness that shows up whenever it feels like it.
“Noted,” he says. “No steak. But they do have the best lobster tail you’ll ever eat in your life.”
“Okay,” I say, settling back into the seat as we pull onto the road. “Now I’m excited.”
And I am.
He keeps the conversation light while we drive, but the ease of it feels manufactured. I hear Dante’s phone buzz in his pocket more than once, the sharp vibration cutting through the quiet of the car, but he never so much as glances at it. Whoever is trying to reach him can wait.
I guess men like Dante are never really off the clock. They just decide what deserves their attention.
When the car rolls to a stop, it’s in front of a restaurant so beautiful it almost doesn’t look real. Golden light spills through towering windows, warm and seductive, the kind of place built to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Dante steps out first. By the time I gather myself, he’s already rounding the car and opening my door before the valet can get near me.
“Ready?”
I nod, and he offers me his hand like this is a date and not whatever dangerous game he’s pulling me into. I place my fingers in his, and he leads me inside.
Every head seems to turn when we enter.
We’re escorted to a table in the center of the restaurant, directly beneath a glittering chandelier.
It throws shards of light over the white tablecloth and polished silver, dazzling enough to make me blink, but all I can think is how exposed I feel sitting beneath it. Like prey pinned beneath a spotlight.
Like bait.
People are watching us. Watching him. Watching me because I’m with him.
I lift a hand to smooth my hair, suddenly wondering if I look polished enough to belong at Dante’s side.
He pulls out my chair for me, his movements easy and practiced, then takes the seat across from me with all the controlled confidence of a man who owns not only the room, but everyone in it.
“This is a lovely restaurant.”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Thank you.”
I glance around again, taking in the gleaming crystal, the candlelight, the soft murmur of voices. “It’s yours?”
His gaze holds mine as he reaches for his wine glass, fingers brushing the stem. “Most everything in Bari is.”
He turns the glass slowly between his fingers, but there’s tension in the movement. A crack in the polished surface. Something restless underneath all that control.
I study him for a moment. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
That gets his attention.
His eyes lift fully to mine, dark and sharp. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Dante…”
He exhales through his nose, the sound soft with irritation at himself, not me. “Lorenzo knows you’re in Italy.”
The words hit like ice water.
“What?” My voice comes out thin. “How do you know?”
“He sent men ahead of him to investigate.” Dante’s tone is calm, but that only makes it worse. “They’ve been sniffing around Bari.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Then why in the hell did you bring me out tonight?”
“Because,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine, “I want him to know you’re here.”
Shock sends me halfway out of my chair before I can stop myself, but Dante lifts one hand between us. It’s a quiet command and somehow that’s enough to freeze me in place.
“Hear me out.”
Every instinct I have is screaming, but I force myself to nod once.
He leans back slightly, watching me with that unreadable expression that always makes me feel like I’m standing too close to the edge of something. “I had an idea. One that solves both of our problems.”
A chill slips down my spine.
“You don’t want to go back to Chicago,” he says. “And I need a wife.”
For a second, I’m certain I misheard him.
“You… what?”
“You heard me.” His voice is even, but his eyes are not. There’s heat there now. Intent. Possession. “Marry me, Juliette.”
The world seems to narrow to the space between us.
The chandelier light glitters overhead. Glass clinks somewhere in the distance.
Conversations continue around us in low, elegant murmurs, but none of it feels real anymore.
Because Dante isn’t joking. And the most dangerous part is that he already sounds like he expects me to say yes.
“You know that will never work,” I say, sinking back into my chair like my legs have forgotten how to hold me.
“It will,” he says, his voice hard with certainty. “There are rules in our world. Old ones. And a married Don does not touch another Don’s wife.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Even if that wife is carrying his child?” I shake my head. “I don’t know, Dante…”
“It doesn’t matter whose blood the child carries.
If you take my name, you become untouchable.
” He leans back in his chair, jaw tight.
“It would be a marriage on paper. Nothing more. God knows I have nothing good to offer you.” His mouth twists like he hates the taste of the truth.
“You would live your life. I’d live mine. ”
“And the baby?”
His gaze locks onto mine, unflinching. “The baby would have my last name. My protection. My empire behind them.” His voice drops lower. “And in this world, that means everything.”
“And what are you going to do when Lorenzo finds out?”
Dante’s gaze shifts to the window, lingering there for a beat before returning to me. “He likely already knows.”
My stomach tightens. I glance the same way and spot two men standing outside, one with a phone pressed to his ear, his posture too still. Dread curls through me.
Dante is right.
Lorenzo knows exactly where I am now.
I turn back to Dante, my heart pounding hard enough to make my voice feel steadier than I have any right to be. I nod once.
“I want a small wedding,” I say, “but a very big engagement ring.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “That can be arranged. Do you have a date in mind?”
“The sooner, the better.”
He studies me for a moment. “A month?”
A month.
The word settles over me strangely—too far away and far too close all at once. Long enough for everything to change. Barely enough time to breathe.
“A month is perfect.”
“Excellent.” He lifts his wine glass toward me, dark eyes holding mine. “To new empires.”
I raise my water in return. “To creating your own destiny.”
Our glasses meet with a soft, delicate clink, and we both drink. But even as the cool water slips down my throat, I know somewhere Lorenzo is learning where I am. And when he finds out I’m marrying another man, he is not going to be happy.
We finish the meal with an ease that feels strange in hindsight. Considering everything waiting for us outside that restaurant, I should have been too tense to swallow a bite.
But I wasn’t.
Maybe that’s the strangest part of all. Because somewhere along the way, Dante stopped feeling like a threat and started feeling like something far more dangerous. A friend.
The thought lingers as we settle into the back of the car, the city lights sliding over the windows in blurred ribbons of gold. I turn in my seat to face him.
“I don’t know much about you.”
He looks at me, one arm stretched along the seat, his expression unreadable in the dark. “I’m an open book. You can ask me anything.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “Anything?”
“Yes.”
I study him for a second. “Okay. Have you ever been married before?”
His expression doesn’t change. “I was engaged once.”
Something in his tone makes me go still.
“She died,” he says, flat and unflinching. “After that, I never felt much like dating again.”
A knot forms in my chest. “I’m so sorry.”
One shoulder lifts in a careless shrug that doesn’t quite hide the shadow in his eyes. “It is what it is. I found out later she was cheating on me, so maybe it was for the best.”
I stare at him. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“No,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”
The car falls silent for a beat, heavy with all the things neither of us says.
“Do you want kids?” I ask softly.
“I do.” He turns his head, looking at me more directly now. “What about you?”
That draws a small laugh from me, though it catches on something tender inside my chest. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But the second I found out I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to keep the baby.”
His gaze lingers on me, thoughtful, almost too intent. “Do you want to find out the gender?”
I shake my head. “No. I want it to be a surprise.”
The faintest smile touches his mouth. “Titi Teresa always says it’s life’s only real surprise.”
I smile back. “She’s a wise woman.”
“She is.”
I hesitate, then glance down at my hands. “Will she know about our arrangement?”
His answer comes too quickly, like he’s already thought it through. “I’d prefer if she didn’t.”
I look back at him.
“She likes you,” he says. “And I want her to die believing I found love.”
A sharp, quiet ache pulls through my chest.
I hold his gaze. “You know you deserve love.”
That earns me a laugh, low and humorless.
“Not for me,” he says.
There’s no bitterness in it. No self-pity. Just certainty. And somehow, that makes it worse.
He parks the car and turns to me.
“I’ll pick up a ring tomorrow.” He lifts my hand and kisses it. “And then you’re moving into my house in Bari.”
My eyebrows lift. “Why?”
“Because it’s the only place you’ll be safe until the wedding.”