18. Carmen
Chapter 18
Carmen
T he days and weeks pass in a blur of sun, sex, and Dante. It’s strange, this new rhythm I’ve fallen into. But not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all.
The mornings are slow, and the light coming through the window (mine or Dante’s; it has all become a bit of a blur) is in soft, golden ribbons. I stretch, slowly waking up to the sound of the world outside—birds, gardeners, the hum of castle life.
I always expect Dante to be here when I open my eyes, but he’s often gone. He’s busy, always doing something with the Grasso di Ferro, whatever that means.
It’s not like I mind. In fact, I think I’ve gotten used to it.
When he’s gone, I fill the silence. I walk the grounds, help the gardeners, or lounge by the pool. Sometimes, I just sit there, watching the water ripple, letting my thoughts float away like leaves in the breeze. It’s quiet, peaceful. A little too quiet, maybe.
But then he comes back, and it’s like the castle shakes off its dust. We go into Montecroce, where everything feels like it belongs to him, and maybe, a little, it does.
The espresso shop—the twin to Caffè di Monteluna in Brooklyn—becomes a favorite haunt. It’s where Dante is most in his element, laughing with the owner and chatting with the locals. I can’t help but smile, watching him navigate it like he was born to.
Afternoons mean ice cream in the piazza, eating it slowly, like we’re savoring the moment. He teases me about my preference for coffee-flavored everything. I tell him off for getting too many scoops. It’s easy to tease him. Everything is easy.
Especially when we’re not thinking about anything but each other.
I care about Dante…his touch, his eyes, the way he makes me feel things I can’t explain. Every time we’re close, my chest tightens. And when he’s gone, I’m left here, wondering how I feel about all of this. About him.
There’s a part of me that wants to push him away, to keep this thing at arm’s length. But he makes it hard. Every smile, every touch, every stolen kiss—he makes it feel impossible to walk away.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but for the first time in my life, I’m thinking about what I want, not what my father wants or what anyone else wants for me. It’s scary. It’s thrilling. And maybe that’s the problem.
* * *
“Come in,” I call, my bedroom door creaking open a moment later to reveal Evelina standing on the threshold.
“Good evening, Carmen,” she greets me with a soft smile, her posture as poised as ever. “May I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course,” I reply, offering her a polite nod.
She moves into the room gracefully, her eyes scanning the space. I feel oddly self-conscious, wondering if she can see how little time I’ve spent here these last few weeks.
I mean…it’s not like Dante, and I have been subtle. But we haven’t said anything to her either.
Nonetheless, I’m not stupid enough to think she’s stupid enough not to have noticed anything.
“I’ve been thinking,” she begins, her gaze returning to me with an intensity that makes me sit up a little straighter, “the castle, while magnificent, could use a little...freshening up. I was hoping I could count on you to help me redecorate a wing of the house.”
I blink at her. “You want me to help with redecorating? Are you sure?”
“I do. I could use a little assistance. There are some things I want to change, and it would be far more fun with someone else to help. You have an opinion, no? One that you are not too scared to tell me?”
I hesitate, a little taken aback by her sudden request. “I’ve never been known for my skills with interior design.”
“You are young. You have a better sense of modern living than I do.” Evelina gives me a pointed look. “My son will be living here in the future, perhaps a little…er…Brooklyn influence will make him feel more at home.”
“I suppose I can help,” I say with a grin. “But I warn you, my taste might be a bit unconventional.”
Evelina laughs softly, her eyes gleaming. “That’s what I like about you.”
* * *
I’m not entirely sure how Evelina and I ended up having dinner in the sunroom that evening. But before I know it, we end up laughing together at Evelina’s stories about her younger days.
I do, however, find myself genuinely amused by her dry humor. There’s something so effortlessly charming about her.
“So you mean to tell me,” I say, wiping away a tear from my eye from laughing so hard, “that he had no idea that you were already engaged to the don of the Grasso di Ferro?”
Evelina grins, leaning back in her chair. “Not a clue. It was dreadful, of course. He was so smitten I could hardly get a word in edgewise. But he was a great dancer.”
I snort. “And what did your fiancé have to say about that?”
“He laughed a fair bit when I showed him the list of baby names,” she replies with a wink.
“You actually showed him?” My jaw drops in disbelief. “And he didn’t immediately call a hit on the guy that had unknowingly dated his future wife?”
“He was always far more attentive to where I was after that.” Evelina smiles into her wine.
I quirk an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you enjoyed winding him up.”
Evelina’s grin widens. “Only for the entertainment value, of course.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re something else, Evelina.”
The air between us feels easy now, warm. There’s something about Evelina that makes everything feel just a little bit lighter.
Just as I’m about to take another bite of my meal, the door opens quietly behind us.
Dante steps in, looking slightly out of place in the warm, easy atmosphere we’ve created. At first, he looks confused, his eyes darting between us before a small smile starts to break across his face.
“What’s this?” he asks, a note of curiosity in his voice. “Am I interrupting?”
I look at Evelina, who meets my gaze with a quiet smirk, clearly enjoying the situation.
“Not at all,” she says in that calm, confident tone of hers. “We were just talking about appalling baby names. Sit, Dante. Have dinner with us.”
I watch as Dante’s expression shifts from confusion to worry to something softer, the corners of his mouth lifting. His gaze settles on me, and he gives a little shrug, stepping farther into the room.
“If you don’t mind the intrusion. I’d hate to be a nuisance,” he says, his voice light.
“When has that ever stopped you before?” I tease back.
To my delight, Evelina cracks out another laugh at my side. Dante looks alarmed but he offers a corresponding chuckle as he takes a seat.
“You’ve been working too hard, Dante,” Evelina teases, setting down her fork. “I have not heard you laugh like that since you got back.”
Dante shoots her a look, but I can see the warmth behind his eyes. “I’ll try my best to slow down, but no promises.”
The night continues to pass in jovial chatter and easy conversation, and I’m struck by how much warmth has filled the room. It’s easy to forget that we’re all tangled in this web of expectations when we’re just people laughing at the absurdity of life.
And when Dante’s gaze lingers on me for just a second too long, I wonder if this—this easy, comfortable moment—is something I could get used to.
After dinner, Dante and I slip away from the table, the weight of the wine and the good mood still hanging in the air. It’s only when we reach his door that I realize that I’ve automatically led us to Dante’s room.
Dante slips in first, unconcerned…or at least so familiar now with my presence that he doesn’t find a need to comment.
But I pause in the doorway, blinking at the sight of my own things scattered around his room—my clothes folded neatly in a drawer, my books lining the shelves. The ensuite housing a cabinet half full of my toiletries.
I didn’t plan for this to happen. I didn’t plan to insert myself into his world like this. But here I am, standing in a room that feels like it could belong to both of us. I wonder when it all shifted.
It’s been weeks since the ball. So much time has passed in this new routine, yet it hasn’t felt that long at all, as if time seems to slip away whenever I’m around Dante.
I think of going out exploring Montecroce or laughing with Evelina as we redecorate the billiard room. Or walking through the gardens. Or chatting with the gardeners.
Maybe it’s just the magic of the Castello di Ferro.
“You okay?” Dante turns to me from where he’s perched on the edge of the bed with a small frown on his otherwise peaceful face.
I step into the room, my hand brushing against the dresser where my things are tucked away. It feels so familiar now, so right.
I don’t know if I’m falling in love with Italy or Dante or both. But what I do know is that something in me has shifted. My heart feels fuller than it’s ever been, in a way that makes me want to both laugh and cry all at once.
It’s more than just a place. More than just a person. It’s us, and it’s terrifying in the best way possible.
“I think so,” I say, letting the truth of the statement settle between us for a moment before going to straddle Dante on the bed.
Dante immediately has his hands on my thighs, greedily securing them and running a thumb across the bare skin. “Wanna tell me how you got so chummy with my mother?”
“I absolutely do not want to talk about your mother right now.”
I kiss the sly grin straight off his mouth.
He rises into the kiss, a content sound escaping his mouth as he gently lowers us back onto his bed. There’s no rush to the way we kiss, just a languid kind of contentedness as he licks into my mouth over and over.
The way our bodies slot together is its own special kind of perfection. I’m so familiar with the shape of him below me that I could identify him in the dark. I could touch those arms, that chest and just know.
It’s a sacred kind of belonging.
And in my darkest, most desperate moments, that’s what I want more than anything. For Dante Grasso to belong to me.
And I to him.
And when he slides his hands up my shirt to palm at my breasts the way he knows I like, that fantasy only becomes more intense.
I groan and grind my hips under his touch. His deft fingers pinch and rub perfectly around my already-taught nipple. I know what he’ll do next and hastily unbutton my shirt to give him access.
His smile is crooked as he sits us back up and takes my nipple into his mouth.
“Fuck,” I say as my back arches, pushing my chest into his face. He hums back contentedly. Hands roaming my bare back, skirting down my sides, then secure around my thighs again.
“Take these off,” he grumbles against my skin.
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s tugging on my shorts. The sensation of being tasted so thoroughly really does a number on my mental cognition.
I slip off his lap to do as he says. Then, after a second to consider, I make short work of his own pants before returning to my perch.
My crotch rubs gloriously against his now that there’s only the thin fabric of our underwear between us. I can feel the heat, the hardness of his own desires pressing back into me.
That fantasy of belonging thrums through me as my kisses become sickly sweet, quickly devolving into an obsession with his tongue, sucking it into my mouth over and over and…
“Look what you’re fucking doing to me.” Dante drags down his boxer shorts with one hand, letting loose his staggering erection.
There’s nothing slow or languid about his expression anymore. It’s fierce, it’s hungry.
I stare down at his cock and lick my lips.
It drives him insane.
In the blink of an eye, his hands are on me. They’re ripping my panties to one side, they’re lifting me up to seat me on top of him, they’re clinging to my arms as he thrusts straight into me.
“Oh fuck. ”
It’s rough, and it’s desperate the way he slams into me again. All I can do is sit and take it, my entire body affected by the recoil. My breasts bouncing in his face are all the reminder he needs to take my nipples into his mouth again.
I let out a long groan.
Suddenly, his movements aren’t enough. I need more of him. I need him deeper, harder.
My hands go to his shoulders as I begin to match his rhythm with my own hips, rolling into him with a deliciousness that has us both falling back into the bed again.
I surrender myself to my baser instincts, riding him thoroughly with only one agenda: to chase our pleasure by any means. Fingernails rake across skin, noises of desperation escape lips, bruising kisses are exchanged.
“Look at you,” he whispers up at me. His eyes black with wondrous desire. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”
And as I tilt my head back to let out a scream of pure lust, I can’t help but agree.