Chapter 21
Loriana
The dress I choose for our date is midnight blue silk that clings to curves I’m still getting used to, elegant enough for the formal dining room but simple enough that I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.
My hands shake as I apply lipstick, and I have to start over twice when my mind wanders to the conversation waiting for me downstairs.
I take one last look in the mirror, smoothing the silk over my hips and adjusting the neckline that shows just enough skin to be interesting without being obvious.
The deep blue makes my eyes look darker, more mysterious, and for once, I feel like I might be worthy of the heated looks Simeone gives me when he thinks I’m not watching.
The distance to the staircase multiplies with each heartbeat. My heels betray me, announcing my approach in sharp staccato notes that slice through the quiet house. Does he know I’m coming? Of course he knows. Simeone always knows.
The thought makes my pulse quicken.
The banister becomes my lifeline as reality shifts below. Golden light spills and spreads like honey from some distant source, while music—Italian, ancient, knowing—rises through the floorboards to claim me.
The first step down feels momentous, like I’m crossing some invisible threshold.
My free hand trails along the smooth wood of the railing as I descend slowly, carefully, hyperaware of how the silk whispers against my legs with each movement.
The dress was expensive—one of several he’d had delivered without asking, along with shoes and jewelry and everything else a mafia don’s woman might need.
Tonight, I’m grateful for his impeccable taste.
Halfway down the staircase, I catch a glimpse of candlelight dancing on the dining room walls, and my breath catches. He’s really done something special. The realization sends warmth blooming through my chest, followed immediately by a flutter of nervousness that makes me pause on the landing.
I smooth my dress one more time, checking that the neckline hasn’t shifted, that my hair is still perfectly arranged in the loose updo I spent twenty minutes perfecting. Everything has to be perfect tonight. I can feel it in the air, the weight of importance that makes every detail matter.
Roses bloom in the air around me, their sweetness cut by his lingering presence—cologne mixed with something essentially him. The marble floor becomes a dark mirror, catching dining room light and fracturing it beneath my heels until I’m treading on scattered stars.
Stop. Breathe. Hand on heart, heart on fire, fire everywhere inside—and outside too, candles, so many candles, and roses like blood drops, like stars fallen, like— How did he make something so vast feel so small? So dangerous?
Simeone stands beside the windows, silhouetted against the night sky like a dark angel surveying his domain. He’s changed into a black tuxedo that emphasizes the silver in his hair and makes him look like something carved from marble and moonlight.
“Stellina.” His voice is warm honey as he turns to face me, and the heat in his dark eyes makes my breath catch. “You look breathtaking.”
“Thank you.” I smooth my dress nervously, suddenly feeling underdressed despite the expensive silk. “This is beautiful, Simeone. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“Yes, I did.” He moves toward me with that fluid grace, stopping just close enough that I can smell his cologne. “You deserve beautiful things. You deserve everything I can give you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion I’m not ready to name. “It’s just dinner.”
“No,” he says quietly, pulling out my chair with old-world courtesy. “It’s not.”
The first course arrives as we settle into our seats—something delicate with truffle oil that I can barely taste over the awareness crackling between us.
“You’re quieter than usual tonight,” Simeone says, swirling his wine thoughtfully. “What’s on your mind, stellina?”
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth, surprised by the gentle inquiry. “Just thinking about how surreal this all feels sometimes.”
“Surreal how?” His smile is patient, encouraging.
“A few months ago, I was living in a cramped apartment in Brooklyn, surviving on takeout and instant coffee.” I gesture to my crystal glass filled with sparkling water. “Now I’m having seven-course dinners by candlelight in a mansion that belongs in a magazine.”
“And where did you grow up? You’ve mentioned Brooklyn, but never your childhood.”
The question catches me off guard. We’ve shared a bed for weeks, shared our bodies, but somehow I’ve managed to keep pieces of my past carefully locked away. “Queens. Little Italy in the Bronx, actually. My grandmother had a small apartment above her bakery.”
“What was it like? Growing up there?”
I find myself smiling despite my nervousness.
“Loud. Everything was so loud—traffic, neighbors arguing through thin walls, my grandmother yelling at customers in Italian when they complained about her prices.” I pause, remembering.
“But it smelled like heaven. Fresh bread every morning, espresso that could wake the dead, and on Sundays, sauce simmering from dawn until dinner.”
“You miss it.”
“I miss her.” The admission comes out rougher than I intended. “She raised me after my mom died. Taught me that respect is earned, not given, and that a woman who can’t take care of herself can’t take care of anyone else.”
“She sounds formidable.”
“She was. Barely five feet tall but could make grown men apologize for existing with a single wooden spoon.” I laugh softly. “You would have either loved her or been terrified of her. She had no patience for men who thought charm could substitute for character.”
“Unlike her granddaughter, who’s been keeping me at arm’s length since the day you arrived.”
The gentle accusation makes me set down my fork. “I don’t keep you at arm’s length.”
“You don’t let me in either.” He cuts into his lamb with precise movements. “What else do you miss? Besides your grandmother and the noise?”
“The authenticity,” I say without thinking. “In the neighborhood, everyone knew everyone. Mrs. Castellano would watch me after school, Mr. DeLuca would slip me extra cannoli when Nonna wasn’t looking. It was like having fifty grandparents all watching out for you.”
“We could visit,” he says quietly. “The old neighborhood. I’d like to see where you learned to be so stubborn.”
The offer shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “Most of it’s changed. Gentrified beyond recognition.”
“But your grandmother’s bakery?”
“Still there. Run by her cousin’s son now.” I take a sip of sparkling water. “Though I doubt he’d appreciate a visit from someone in my... current situation.”
“You mean someone who’s found happiness despite what others might think?”
“I mean someone who’s living with a man the neighborhood would cross themselves to avoid.”
His laugh is genuine, warm. “Fair enough. Though I suspect your grandmother would have appreciated my direct approach to problem-solving.”
“She would have hit you with a rolling pin for presuming to know what she’d appreciate.”
“Probably. But she would have respected that I take care of what’s mine.”
The possessive note in his voice should irritate me, but instead it sends warmth curling through my chest. “Tell me about Sicily,” I say, changing the subject as staff appear to clear our plates. “What was it like growing up there?”
His expression shifts, becoming more guarded. “Different from your crowded streets. Quieter in some ways, more dangerous in others.”
“In what way?”
“The sun burns everything white during the day, but at night the whole island smells like flowers and lemons.” He accepts the next course—some sort of fish that looks like art on the pristine china.
“You learn early that loyalty is everything and betrayal is death. That family protects family, no matter the cost.”
“Is that why you came to America? To build your own family?”
“I came because staying would have meant choosing between my conscience and my blood.” The admission is matter-of-fact, but I hear the old pain underneath. “Sometimes leaving is the only way to survive with your soul intact.”
“Do you miss it? Home?”
“I thought I’d left that part of myself behind.” He takes a sip of wine, studying me over the rim of his glass while I sip my sparkling water. “But lately, I find myself wanting to show you the olive groves where I learned to fight. The cliffs where I used to sit and dream of escape.”
“Escape to what?”
“This. A life where I could choose my own path instead of following one that is handed to me.”
The weight of his words settles between us, heavy with meaning I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack.
“We’re both far from where we started,” I say finally.
“No,” he says, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his. “I think we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
“You’re different tonight,” I observe as he pours me more sparkling water.
“Different how?”
“Less commanding. More...” I search for the word. “Human, I suppose.”
“Does that disappoint you?” There’s something almost vulnerable in the question.
“It surprises me.” I take a sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in my chest. “I didn’t think you knew how to be anything other than completely in control.”
“Control is a tool, stellina. It’s not who I am.” He leans back in his chair, studying me with those intense dark eyes. “Though I’ll admit it’s a tool I’ve relied on heavily where you’re concerned.”
“Because you don’t trust me?”
“Because I don’t trust myself.” The admission slips out, rough and honest. “Because you make me want things I’ve never allowed myself to want.”
“Like what?”
“Like partnership instead of possession. Like building something together instead of just taking what I need.” His fingers trace the rim of his wine glass. “Like believing that something good can last without being destroyed.”