Chapter Twenty-Five Guinevere
Chapter Twenty-Five
Guinevere
I could not stop staring at the six-carat black diamond surrounded by tiny white diamonds like stars around a depthless sky. It looked outrageous on my slim finger, a statement of such wealth and excess it should have been obscene.
But I loved it.
Because it was a statement of Raffa’s love and possession.
A symbol of his trust in me and my ability to endure any of life’s misfortunes that might befall me as his partner in crime.
To honor both the ring and the fact that it was the Day of the Dead in Italy, I was wearing a liquid black silk gown with a daring slit in the left side of the skirt that exposed my leg from hip to ankle.
The fabric clung to my waist and breasts like an oil spill, revealing every inch of my shape even though it covered my chest completely.
With my hair curled and half of it pulled back with antique gold combs studded with more black diamonds, I looked exactly like the kind of woman who might stand beside the King Below.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Raffa appeared in the bathroom mirror behind me dressed in his own finery, a black suit, shirt, and leather shoes.
The starkness of the monotone outfit made his hair glow like burnished bronze, his eyes a pale echo, shining like sunlit amber with an inner happiness that had not ebbed since I had agreed to be his wife the night before.
He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, face utterly expressionless but for the heat in his gaze as it swept over my body.
“Well?” I asked with a little smile as I finished applying the gloss over my bloodred lips. “What will your criminal colleagues think of your American fiancée?”
“I do not care what they think,” he said disdainfully, as if the very idea was ridiculous. It made my grin widen. “Not when I know without a single doubt I have the most beautiful woman in Tuscany on my arm tonight.”
“Just Tuscany?” I joked.
“The world,” he corrected, stalking over the marble tiles of the palazzo bathroom to cage me in with his arms on the counter to either side of me.
We made a striking couple in the reflection of the wide antique mirror.
My hair and eyes were darker, almost black in the golden light from the sconces, but my skin was still fairly pale from my autumn in Michigan, whereas Raffa had light, almost fire-kissed brown hair and eyes and a rich tan.
The harsh lines of his angular, masculine beauty complemented the delicacy of my own features and slightness.
I watched as a faint flush of arousal bloomed in my cheeks and seeped down my neck.
“We are a perfect match,” he murmured as if reading my mind, holding my gaze before pressing a warm kiss to my exposed shoulder. He moved my hair to plant another one on my neck. “Come due gocce d’acqua.”
Like two drops of water. Made of the very same substance.
“I have something more for you,” he admitted, pulling a glistening chain from his pocket.
My sister’s cross dangled from his fingers as he lifted it to fasten the necklace around my throat. My fingers trembled as I touched the intricate metalwork.
“I recovered it from the body,” he explained before I could ask. “It was your sister’s, and you should have it.”
The cross settled perfectly in the expanse of skin above the neckline of my dress, a beautiful addition to the outfit. I was not religious, but I appreciated the history of the church in this country, and it felt right to wear what was clearly a Pietra family heirloom.
“If I wear it, will people know where it came from?” Where I came from.
“Maybe,” he allowed. “You do not have to wear it tonight if it makes you uncomfortable to be associated with the Pietras. I would rather you be associated with me anyway.”
I smiled slightly. “Heathen. You know I am yours first and foremost. I would like to wear it. It would be good for your soldati to see the connection.”
Raffa didn’t disagree.
“I wish I knew why that man had her necklace,” I admitted. “It doesn’t add up. She may have been dating the Albanian gangster, but how did it end up in the hands of an Italian mafioso?”
“We might never know,” Raffa warned. “But the Albanians will be here tonight. Drita’s brother was the one who dated Gemma. You can ask her some questions, though she may be reluctant to share.”
“Why?”
“I killed her brother when she tried to play games with me after you were taken.”
I blinked at him in the reflection, but he was utterly calm and sincere. For some reason, it made me want to laugh. Standing in all our designer finery, with thousands of euros’ worth of jewels on my person, and we were talking easy as you please about murder.
It was fitting somehow.
“Well, that’s understandable but inconvenient,” I said with a small sigh.
Raffa let out a guffaw of surprised laughter, his arms wrapping me up like a present. “Sei magnifica. You never fail to surprise me.”
Warmth flooded me. I wondered if it would always be like this between us, even as I knew it would be. For exactly the reason Raffa had just proclaimed, we would never fail to surprise each other.
“Let’s get married tomorrow,” I said suddenly, and I could tell he was surprised by the split second he froze with his lips against my throat. “I don’t want to wait.”
“We have nothing but time, Vera,” he cautioned, wrapping one arm around my waist to bring me tight against his front. “I am not marrying you for political reasons. We can wait as long as we wish.”
“Then why did you propose now?” I countered with an arched brow.
He matched the expression. “Because I had just lived through four days believing you might be dead. I did not want to live another twenty-four hours without telling you how ardently I love you and want you beside me for the rest of time.”
“For a mafioso,” I said somewhat breathlessly, “you are the sweetest man I’ve ever known.”
“Do not mention that to the people waiting at the Cimitero delle Porte Sante,” he suggested dryly, referring to the cemetery where he was hosting the gathering. “It would ruin a reputation I have spent considerable time cultivating.”
I bit the edge of my grin. “No, it is my secret gift, and I intend to keep it that way. But Raffa, I still want to get married soon. I know it has only been a few months, but I feel as if I have waited my whole life to be here in this place with you as my person. I want us to own each other in every way we can.”
His copper-coin eyes flashed with delight. “It is not enough that you have my ring on your finger and fresh cum leaking down your thighs?”
I squirmed, hyperaware of the dampness of my underwear. Raffa had requested I not clean up before the party. He wanted to know that his cum was inside me while I spoke with men who would covet me for my beauty and spirit.
“It’s enough for now,” I allowed. “But you do call me your greedy girl sometimes. Let me be greedy in this. I wasted so much of my life being afraid to go after what I wanted, and now I know what I want. You.”
“How soon?” he asked with a sigh, but he could not quite hide the edge of his smile.
“Before my parents leave?” I suggested. “Mom said they might as well stay for Christmas. I would love to have a winter wedding at the villa.”
“As you wish, stella cadente mia.” He turned me around by the hips to seal the words with a kiss.
I laughed when he pulled away with my red gloss on his mouth and cleaned it with my thumb.
“Red is much more your color than mine,” he agreed drolly.
I beamed at him. “I wear it for you, though.”
“I know.” His features softened for a moment as he pushed my hair back and framed my neck in his hands. “Now, your sweet Raffa is gone for the rest of the night, and in his place, your King Below. Are you ready to embrace my dark kingdom?”
“Lead the way.”
This party was not like the San Lorenzo celebration Raffa had hosted at the palazzo for our collective friends.
For one, Raffa hosted his annual Day of the Dead party in the Cimitero delle Porte Sante, the Sacred Gates Cemetery, just behind Piazzale Michelangelo in the fortified bastion of the Basilica of San Miniato al Monte.
It was a public resting place of famous Italian figures, such as the author of Pinocchio, but thanks to his connections with local officials, like the mayor, Raffa was granted private access after hours.
It should have been macabre, maybe, but Italians’ Day of the Dead on November 2 was not like Halloween in the US. It was a time of reflection and a reminder that we continued to love our family and friends even when they passed beyond the veil.
The tombs themselves were works of art, statues and mausoleums gleaming in the light of dozens of standing candelabras erected throughout the space. Everyone had come bearing flowers to place on graves out of respect, but Raffa had ordered countless more, so the very air was thick with fragrance.
Everyone was dressed to impress, flaunting their wealth in designer suits and gowns, both men and women decked out in gems. Raffa and I had stood at the entry to the cemetery for over an hour greeting the guests, and I was surprised that most of them handed us baskets of cookies, sweets, and wine.
Raffa had explained it was custom in the south, where his mother was from, to give a cannistru, or basket of sweets, to celebrate the dead, and it was a fitting hostess gift for the celebration.
There were also black chrysanthemums everywhere, throwing me back to that last night in the palazzo when the Venetian had sent an assassin to take us out.
“You are safe here,” Raffa murmured into my ear as if sensing my disquiet. “I have men crawling every inch of the perimeter. No one will get to you tonight. Or ever again.”
“Even you can’t promise that.”
“I can and I will. You saw how I killed Philippe. But you did not know they call me Il Gentiluomo because I leave notes on my corpses, little life lessons to warn my enemies.”