Chapter 32
Present
Upper-East Side, New York City
STEAM CURLED AROUND US, BLURRING the glass and turning the shower into our own private cloud. Warm water cascaded over my shoulders, tracing paths down my skin before dripping onto Matteo’s chest where he stood behind me, hands settled at my hips like they belonged there.
It was early evening – the fourth one we’d spent like this, half-naked or fully, lost in each other like oxygen didn’t matter. The city outside moved on without us, and for once, I wasn’t racing to keep up.
His mouth found the curve of my neck, slow and sinful, while his fingers ran soap along my stomach.
“We should probably rejoin civilization soon,” Matteo murmured against my skin, voice deep and amused.
I smirked. “Planning to show me off?”
He spun me gently to face him, water droplets clinging to his lashes. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth.
“Planning to take you out on a date.”
I arched a brow.
“Dinner, wine, making you blush across a table.” He leaned in closer, lips grazing mine. “Unless you’re scared, of course…”
I scoffed. “I’m not falling for that again!”
He laughed, low and warm, crowding me against the marble wall like he couldn’t help himself. “You really think you’re winning this game?”
I slid my fingers into his wet hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. “I know I am.”
His smirk deepened. “Then you won’t mind getting dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”
“Pushy,” I muttered, even as heat curled in my stomach at the thought of going out together together.
He kissed me – slow, sweet, like sunrise and love – and it made my knees weak.
When we finally pulled apart, the water had long since stopped being the warmest thing in the room.
“Let’s go,” he nudged my hip playfully towards the shower glass door, slapping my ass. “If you stay any longer, we won’t make it out the door.”
I brushed past him deliberately, letting my fingers trail across his lower abs. “Maybe that’s the point.”
He smirked. “Dinner first, Mrs. Di’Ablo.”
We stepped out of the shower together, steam following us into the bedroom. The city’s evening glow bled through the penthouse windows – gold and violet – and somewhere between the closet doors and the vanity mirror, we began to dress.
Date night.
Matteo and me.
Not fake. Not forced.
Wanted.
The restaurant was candlelit warmth against the cool hum of Manhattan outside.
Our table – tucked in its own little alcove behind sheer drapes – gave us the illusion of privacy without removing us from the world.
I could still hear the distant clink of glasses, feel the pulse of the city through the floorboards, see skyscraper light glitter across Matteo’s eyes.
He sat next to me; jacket off, sweater sleeves rolled, forearms flexing as he held the menu. God help me.
We’d flirted through the appetizer, through the entrée, through three shared glances that felt like touches. Now dessert sat ignored between us, melting chocolate and strawberries we were too busy watching each other to eat.
Matteo leaned in to murmur in my ear, voice dropping to a velvet murmur. “Tell me a secret.”
Warmth curled low in my stomach. I swirled my wine, pretending to think, even though the memory rushed forward immediately.
“That night… At the White Party?” I took a deep breath, suddenly feeling nervous. “I didn’t walk into the bathroom by accident. I went to check on you. I don’t know why… I just had to.”
Something elusive passed though his eyes – something raw and unguarded.
“I didn’t need to be in Vegas for Tony’s fight.” His thumb traced my wrist. “I flew down to see you, princesa.”
My breath caught.
The space between us disappeared quickly – his hand on the back of my neck, my lips already parting. The kiss was soft, reverent, like he was memorizing the taste of me.
When we pulled back, I bit my lip, nerves buzzing under my skin.
“Me too…” I whispered like it was a sin.
Slow appreciation spread across Matteo’s face.
“Our early morning in Hawaii,” He said, voice somber, remembering. “I couldn’t sleep because you were all I could think about. I walked the beach, dreaming about you. Then… I saw you.”
I smiled, feeling the echo of ocean breeze and moonlight.
“Something was pulling me outside that night. Then I saw you…”
His jaw tightened slightly. “It broke my heart to watch you walk away the next night in Vegas.”
Guilt prickled. I reached under the table, touching his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Tell me you won’t walk away from us again.”
My pulse stuttered.
Us. The word had weight. Future. Fear.
I wanted to say I wouldn’t, but doubt flickered because I’d run before. I’d freaked out. I’d panicked.
“I won’t…”
His hand came up to cup my cheek, guiding my eyes to his, not letting me look away.
“Promise me.”
The restaurant blurred, sound dissolving. All I could hear was my heartbeat and his breath, close enough to share.
I swallowed, something deep inside me shifting.
“I promise.”
His smile – slow, undone – hit me like heat.
And then he kissed me again, deeper this time, like sealing a vow that tasted like wine, chocolate, and something terrifyingly close to love.
She was tucked into my side instead of across from me, boots kicked off, knees folded up in the booth like she belonged there – like she belonged with me.
Her thigh pressed against mine, fingers idly tracing patterns over the back of my hand resting on her leg.
I felt every drag of her nail like a lit fuse.
Soft jazz hummed through the private alcove.
Outside the sheer curtain, the city moved – women laughing, silverware chiming, the low hum of New York being New York.
But in here? It was just us. Just the warmth of her body against my shoulder and a bottle of Barolo breathing between half-eaten dessert plates.
I tipped my head toward her, voice low.
“You’re the youngest woman to be Made in the Italian-American Mafia. What the hell could fifteen-year-old Francesca have done to convince her father?”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips, but her eyes, they went somewhere else. Somewhere far and dark.
“My father didn’t… Want me to join the Family business at first.”
She inhaled – long, slow – bracing. I felt her ribcage rise against my arm. Then she talked.
Fifteen minutes later, rage burned through my blood like gasoline on open flame. I couldn’t breathe.
The things she said – what had almost been done to her, what she endured at that boarding school, even if just for a couple days – made my vision blur at the edges. I wanted names. I wanted addresses. I wanted the world to kneel at her feet or burn for ever touching her.
And yet – beneath the fury – was pride so sharp it felt like it cut me open from sternum to spine.
She survived. She fought. She did what I wanted to do now, years ago.
My wife was made of diamonds and razor wire.
Francesca shifted against me and held out her hand. On her palm, barely visible unless you knew where to look, was the thin white relic of a blade. A vow. A belonging.
“When I arrived back in New York,” she whispered, “The first place we went to was St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral. That night, I became a Made Woman.”
My throat tightened. Slowly, I took her hand – small, deceptively delicate – and brushed my thumb over the scar from the initiation. Reverent. Angry. Proud.
“Anything you desire, Francesca,” I said, voice low, steady despite the wildfire inside, “You tell me. I will bring the world to your feet.”
Color bloomed across her cheeks. Shy – my fierce, lethal wife actually looked shy. It nearly killed me.
I lifted her hand to my mouth and pressed a kiss right over the scar, slow and deliberate, like I was claiming her past along with her future. Then I guided her palm to my cheek, closing my eyes into her touch.
Her fingers curled there – gentle, trusting.
And in that moment, under New York lights and the scent of her hair, I knew.
I’d kill, die, cheat and steal for this woman.
The restaurant around us blurred into soft gold – candlelight reflected in crystal, distant laughter melting into the slow rhythm of jazz.
Matteo still held my palm against his cheek from before, his dark lashes half-lowered, and I felt him watching me.
Felt the weight of everything unsaid between us.
I swallowed.
“Tell me about you and Zach.”
His eyes lifted to mine – steady, unreadable. Almost guarded. For a moment I wondered if he’d deflect, make a joke, turn it into something light. But instead Matteo exhaled through his nose, slow and deep, like he was freeing something he’d kept caged for years.
He began talking.
Twenty minutes and several questions later, his story lay bare between us like glass on marble.
The distance. The guilt. The betrayal. The love that never stopped but grew twisted, frayed, knotted by expectations and consequences neither brother could undo.
He carried it like armor. Like punishment.
My eyes burned before I even realized I was crying. I reached up and cupped the side of his face gently, thumb brushing the corner of his jaw.
“Baby…”
His hand came up and covered mine, warm and grounding. “Don’t cry for me, princesa.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, voice unsteady. “I had no idea. You’ve been carrying this all this time?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The silence was enough.
“Matteo,” my voice cracked, “You’re breaking my heart.”
He blinked once, slow, gaze softening in a way that made my chest ache.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
I brought my other hand up, framing his face fully – forehead almost touching his, breath mingling with his breath.
“Don’t ever apologize,” I breathed. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
His eyes flickered, like he wasn’t used to being touched like this. Seen like this. Loved like this.
“I should be the one apologizing,” I went on, “For being so insensitive before. I’m truly sorry.”
He shook his head, thumb grazing the back of my hand. “It’s okay, amor.”
But I saw it – the way he tucked his pain away, like he always did. Like he thought he had to.
I leaned in closer, my thumb rubbing his jaw.
Candlelight flickered across her face – warm, golden, impossibly soft. She cradled my face like I was something sacred. Like I was the most precious thing to her. I had never known – never felt – a love so pure as the love she had showed me.
Her eyes glistened, heartbreak and tenderness tangled together.
“You’re so kind…” she whispered.
I huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I did what was right.”
“And selfless…”
“You give me too much credit, Donna.” My thumb brushed her wrist – slow, yearning.
“You don’t give yourself enough. You were just a kid yourself. Raising another.”
I swallowed, jaw tightening. “I didn’t–”
“Three days and seventy miles through the desert?” She cut in gently. “You took care of him.”
The memory hit like heatstroke – sand, sun, bloodied knuckles, the weight of a little brother too light from hunger. I blinked it away.
“Thank you, Francesca.”
She leaned forward and hugged me – arms around my neck, soft sweater brushing my jaw, her scent flooding every inhale. I held her back, breathing her in, breathing us in.
“Thank you for telling me,” She murmured against my shoulder.
I pressed a kiss to her temple without thinking. “I’ll tell you everything you want.”
And I meant it. All of it. Every dark corner, every locked room.
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “Let’s go home.”
Home.
With her, it sounded like Heaven.
I nodded back, certain. “Let’s go home.”
We stood, fingers brushing – her hand slipping into mine naturally, instinctively. And neither of us let go as we left the restaurant and stepped into the New York night, city lights reflecting in her eyes like stars I’d put there.