Chapter 8
Emilia
M y mother stood near the tall windows of the sitting room, bathed in the midday light that poured in through the sheer curtains. She was the very picture of poise, her hands clasped delicately in front of her as she surveyed the maid making final preparations in the adjacent dining room. Not a hair was out of place in her sleek chignon, her pearl earrings catching the light as she tilted her head ever so slightly to study the floral arrangement on the table.
“Move the hydrangeas to the center,” she instructed, her voice calm but carrying an authority that left no room for argument. The maid hurried to obey, shifting the vase just a fraction of an inch. She nodded once, satisfied, before turning her attention back to me.
Her gaze swept over me, taking in every detail of my appearance with the same critical eye she applied to everything else. “Your dress is lovely,” she said, her tone neutral, though the faintest hint of approval flickered in her expression. “But your hair could use a little more polish. You shouldn’t look rushed.”
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying not to fidget. “I wasn’t rushed,” I replied lightly, though we both knew that wasn’t entirely true.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Presentation matters, Emilia. You know that.” She adjusted the cuff of her tailored jacket, her movements precise and deliberate. “Especially when we have guests.”
I glanced toward the dining room, where the table gleamed under the light of a crystal chandelier. The staff moved efficiently, replacing polished silverware and ensuring every glass sparkled. Everything was perfect, as it always was under her watchful eye.
“I know,” I said softly, though the words felt like they belonged to someone else.
Her perfume—a subtle blend of jasmine and bergamot—lingered in the air as she stepped closer. Bianca Ricci, the textbook definition of the perfect mafia wife. She was elegance and control personified, the kind of woman who turned heads without trying, who could silence a room with nothing more than a glance. My father’s perfect counterpart.
“Your father has worked hard to create a life of respect and power for this family,” she said, her voice low but firm. “It’s our job to support that. To ensure everything runs smoothly.”
Support. Smooth. Perfect.
That was the mafia wife’s creed, wasn’t it? To be the quiet foundation of an empire built on blood and secrets. To smile when you wanted to scream. To look flawless even when your world was falling apart.
I nodded, but my stomach twisted. For her, it was so simple—second nature. She had spent decades perfecting her role, becoming the flawless mafia wife, the perfect hostess, the unwavering matriarch. And she did it all without complaint, without hesitation. But at what cost?
The thought came unbidden, my mind drifting to the pill bottles I’d seen the nurse bring home from the pharmacy every month for as long as I could remember. My mother took them like clockwork—something for anxiety, something for sleep, something to keep her world balanced on the knife’s edge of composure. I’d never asked her about them, and she’d never explained. She didn’t have to. They were just another part of the life she lived, the life that demanded too much from her and gave little in return .
I wondered if she ever thought about the toll it took—the way her hands sometimes trembled when she thought no one was looking, or the slight strain in her voice when she gave orders. Did she ever think about who she might have been if she hadn’t married into this life? If she didn’t have to play this role every single day? Or had she buried those thoughts so deeply that even she couldn’t find them anymore?
I hesitated, my eyes lingering on her for a moment longer. “Do you ever get tired of it?” I asked quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Her brows lifted faintly, but she didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached out, brushing an invisible speck of lint from my sleeve. “Tiredness is a luxury we can’t afford,” she said, her tone steady but distant. Then, softer, almost too soft to hear: “You’ll understand one day.”
I didn’t want to understand. Not the way she did.
Her gaze lingered on mine for a moment longer before she turned back to the dining room, stepping forward to adjust the placement of a wine glass that was already perfectly aligned. I stood there, watching her, and for a moment, my chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid.
I admired her composure. I envied her strength. But I would never envy her life.
The dining room buzzed with conversation as I stepped inside, the scent of roasted lamb and garlic filling the air. My father sat at the head of the table, as always, his presence commanding and immovable. My brothers flanked him, their voices loud and animated as they debated some meaningless sports statistic.
And then there was me, seated at the far end of the table, as far from the center of attention as I could manage. Not that it mattered. I knew the moment Dante arrived, the room’s focus would shift entirely to him.
I stabbed at my salad with my fork, my appetite nonexistent. My brothers were still laughing about something— probably at my expense—when my father’s voice cut through the din.
“Dante’s here.”
The room fell silent, the shift in energy palpable. Even the staff moved more carefully, their footsteps quieter as they hurried to clear the appetizers. I didn’t need to look up to know he’d entered. I felt it, the same way you feel the first drop of rain before a storm.
“Buongiorno,” Dante said, his voice smooth and unhurried as he greeted my father. The deep timbre of it sent a shiver down my spine, though I kept my gaze firmly on my plate.
“Dante,” my father replied, standing to clasp his hand. “Always a pleasure.”
“Likewise.” There was a pause, and I could feel his eyes scanning the room, taking in every detail. “I see the family is all here.”
“Of course,” my father said, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. “Come, sit. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Dante’s footsteps were slow and deliberate as he crossed the room, each one echoing in my chest. When he finally took his seat, I risked a glance in his direction. He was impeccably dressed, as always, his dark suit tailored to perfection. But it wasn’t the suit that held my attention—it was the way he carried himself, the quiet authority that made everyone else seem smaller in comparison.
His gaze flickered to me, and for a brief moment, our eyes met. My breath caught, and I quickly looked away, my cheeks burning.
“Emilia,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something I couldn’t quite name. “You look lovely today.”
The compliment caught me off guard, and I hated the way my heart skipped a beat. “Thank you,” I muttered, focusing on my plate.
My brothers exchanged knowing glances, their smirks infuriating. Tony, ever the instigator, leaned forward, his grin wide. “So, Dante, what brings you to our humble family lunch? Business or pleasure?”
Dante’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold. “A bit of both, I suppose.”
“Is that so?” Marco asked, his tone deliberately casual. “And which part involves our sister?”
The tension at the table spiked, the air growing heavier. My father shot Marco a warning look, but Dante remained unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused.
“Your sister,” he said slowly, his gaze sliding back to me, “is...intriguing.”
My fork clattered against my plate, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence that followed. I could feel every pair of eyes at the table on me, but it was Dante’s stare that burned the most.
“Can we not talk about me as if I’m not here?” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze, a sarcastic smile spreading across my face as I batted my lashes at him. “I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a warning.”
His smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps a bit of both.”
My father cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “Enough,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Dante is a guest in our home. Let’s not make this uncomfortable.”
Too late for that, I thought, but I kept my mouth shut.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced conversation and simmering tension. Dante spoke sparingly, his attention divided between my father and the occasional glance in my direction. I tried to focus on anything else—the clinking of silverware, the sound of the fountain outside, the way the sunlight streamed through the windows—but it was impossible to ignore him.
When the meal finally ended, my father and brothers excused themselves to wash up and get ready to discuss business, leaving me alone with Dante. I considered slipping away, but the weight of his gaze pinned me to my chair.
“You’re quiet today,” he said, his voice low, his eyes fixed forward as if to avoid drawing attention to our conversation. “Not like you.”
He sat with his arm draped lazily over the back of the chair beside him, finishing the last bite of his meal. He looked completely at ease, like this was his house, as if he wasn’t a guest but the one in charge. The sight of it made me bristle, hating how effortlessly he seemed to fit into a world that was supposed to be mine.
“Maybe I just don’t have anything to say,” I replied, my tone clipped, even though I could feel the heat of his attention without him even looking directly at me.
“Doubtful.” He smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting as his dark eyes flicked to me, gleaming with amusement. “You always have something to say, princess.”
I shot him a glare, my hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Stop calling me that.”
“Why?” He tilted his head slightly, finally turning to look at me fully, his gaze roaming over my face like I was an endlessly fascinating puzzle. “It suits you.”
“It’s patronizing, and it’s condescending,” I shot back. “I’m not some damsel in distress.”
“No,” he said, his smirk softening into something closer to genuine. “You’re not.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or something else entirely. I didn’t like the way it made my stomach flip—hot and unsteady, like my body couldn’t decide whether to lean in closer or put as much space between us as possible.
It was infuriating, the way he looked at me. Like he could see straight through my carefully constructed walls, peeling away the layers with nothing but those dark, piercing eyes. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, his lips curved into that maddening smirk that made my breath hitch before I could stop it. He was too much—too confident, too composed, too damn attractive for someone who had just barged into my life and turned it upside down .
I hated the way my skin prickled under his gaze, the way my pulse seemed to pick up its pace whenever he was near. It was dangerous, the way he affected me, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to find out just how much worse it could get.
“Then stop calling me princess,” I said again, more firmly this time, desperate to regain some semblance of control.
“Sure.” He shrugged, his voice casual. “What would you prefer? Queen? Boss? Or maybe something softer—darling? Sweetheart?” His lips curved into that infuriating smirk again. “I could get creative.”
I glared at him, leaning forward slightly. “How about you know, my actual name?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He leaned back, completely unfazed by my irritation. “You’re more fun when you’re annoyed.”
“Glad I could entertain you,” I deadpanned, crossing my arms.
“You’re doing great,” he said, his tone playful now, like he was baiting me on purpose.
“Why are you still here?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. “Shouldn’t you be off plotting world domination or something?”
He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “I like this version of you. Feisty suits you.”
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” I pressed, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Not really.” He tilted his head, studying me. “And even if I did, I think I’d rather stay here. You’re much more interesting and better looking than your father.”
“Wow,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Flattery really isn’t your strong suit, is it?”
“I wasn’t trying to flatter you,” he replied smoothly. “Just stating a fact.”
I huffed, leaning back in my chair. “Well, I’m not here to amuse you.”
“Too bad,” he said, his tone light but still somehow serious. “ You’re doing a good job of it anyway.”
I stared at him, trying to figure out what his angle was. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Do you?” he shot back, his smirk widening.
I opened my mouth to respond, then shut it again, realizing he’d trapped me in my own argument. He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself, and I hated how smug he looked.
“You’re impossible,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“And you’re stubborn,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “But I like that about you.”
I froze for half a second, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. He wasn’t smirking anymore, and for the first time, his gaze felt...steady. Like he wasn’t just teasing me anymore.
I blinked, unsure how to respond to him. I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or just messing with me again, but either way, it left me off-balance.
Before I could say anything, he stood, straightening his jacket with that effortless confidence that made it seem like he owned the entire room. “I have business with your father” he said casually, clearing his throat as if the entire conversation hadn’t happened. Then he paused, looking down at me with that familiar glint in his eye, the one that made my chest tighten even though I hated that it did.
“And Emilia?”
“What now?” I asked, exasperated, though my voice came out weaker than I intended.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he said, his voice low and teasing, punctuated by a wink that sent an unwelcome heat rushing to my cheeks. Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, his strides confident, as if he’d already won whatever game we were playing.
I sat there, staring at the empty chair across from me, my heart racing for reasons I didn’t want to think about. The space he left behind felt charged, like the echo of his presence was still lingering in the air.
What the hell was his problem? And why, even after he was gone, did I feel like he’d taken the oxygen in the room with him?
My eyes reluctantly followed him as he disappeared through the doorway, the broad lines of his shoulders and the ease of his stride only making it worse. He was maddeningly attractive—too sharp, too put-together, too aware of the effect he had on people. On me.
I hated the way my body reacted to him, the way my pulse quickened and my skin heated like it was responding to a challenge I never agreed to take on. He was dangerous, and not just because of who he was. He was dangerous because, even now, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his smirk made my stomach flutter.
What was wrong with me? And why, despite every reason I had to despise him, did part of me wonder when I’d see him again?
I hated him.
I hated that I didn’t hate him enough.