Chapter 15
Dante
As we sit in the car, heading toward the reception, my gaze keeps drifting to my wife.
My fucking wife.
The word tastes foreign. Sharp. Like poison laced with honey.
Harlow is breathtaking, and that’s a fucking problem. A liability. And I don’t do liabilities. Yet she just became my biggest one.
She’s mine now.
Legally.
Publicly.
Officially.
I can still taste her on my lips, and my cock is still rock-hard from making her come mere minutes ago.
The memory alone threatens to undo the tight leash I keep on myself.
I shouldn’t have touched her, I should’ve let her grapple with the unyielding reality of what this marriage entails.
Instead, I indulged her, offered a fleeting taste of pleasure, a whisper of something she’ll soon be powerless to resist.
From the corner of my eye, I watch my wife.
The elegant curve of her profile, the delicate slope of her neck, the faint flutter of her pulse beneath flawless skin.
The scent of vanilla and peony lingers in the air, weaving its way into my lungs, into my blood, like a goddamn infection.
Fucking vanilla.
Sweet.
Deceptive.
It doesn’t belong here, in my world, among blood and shadows.
And yet, it clings to her like a second skin, invading my senses, making it impossible to think straight.
I want to sink my teeth into her, right there, where her pulse thrums beneath delicate skin.
Feel the shudder rippling through her body, the sharp intake of breath as I claim what’s mine.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
Because there is nothing soft about what exists between us.
My jaw tightens, muscles coiled with restraint.
This is business.
A contract sealed in blood and loyalty.
An arrangement.
Nothing more.
I don’t need complications. I don’t need her. Yet, here I am, fucking married. Bound. With more enemies than I can count and a target that grows with every breath I take. The last thing I need is to fall for my wife. To love her.
Not that it should be a concern, I don’t believe I’m capable of such a thing.
And yet…
She’s in my head, threading through my thoughts like a whispered curse.
She’s unravelling me in ways I can’t afford, turning control into something fragile and slipping.
I should be the one setting the rules, holding the power.
But every time she looks at me with those storm-grey eyes, sharp as steel, I am the one who fractures first.
And that? That is a dangerous fucking thing.
The car slows as we approach the reception venue, Il Castello di Notte.
An exclusive, high end restaurant, reserved entirely for tonight.
Inside, power converges.
Three of the most formidable families in the underworld gathered under one roof.
To some, it will be a symbol of strength.
To others, a declaration of war.
The car rolls to a smooth stop, the soft purr of the engine fading as our security shifts into position.
The door swings open, and I step out first, the weight of the late afternoon pressing in, thick with the remnants of the day’s heat.
The sun still lingers on the horizon, casting long shadows across the pavement, but it does little to cool the slow burn beneath my skin, the fire coiled tight in my veins, restless and untamed.
With a steady pace, I round the vehicle.
When I reach for Harlow’s door, she lingers for a fleeting moment, barely perceptible, before her fingers slip into mine.
The instant our skin connects, something knots in my chest.
A sharp, unwelcome sensation.
My gaze drops to her hand, to the glint of gold against her skin, where the rings I placed now rest, an unspoken claim no one can challenge.
Then to my own hand, the matching band, deceptively simple yet bearing a weight far greater than gold.
The sight of them together stirs something dark and possessive in my chest, a satisfaction I refuse to name.
She’s mine.
In every way that matters.
Harlow steps out of the car with effortless poise, the fabric of her gown whispering against the pavement.
She moves beside me, spine straight, chin high, like she’s walking into battle, ready to fight even when the war is already lost.
My gaze lowers, drawn to the bouquet resting in her grasp, pristine, refined.
A stark illusion against the sharp wit and defiant fire burning in her eyes.
A slow, knowing smirk curves my lips, edged with something dangerously close to amusement.
“Calla lilies?”
I drawl, my gaze flicking to the bouquet in her grasp.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who indulges in the illusion of innocence.”
Harlow meets my eyes without hesitation, her smirk a slow, knowing thing, sharp enough to cut.
“I am anything but innocent, Dante. You’d do well to remember that.”
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest.
“Oh, I never forget, leonessa. But let’s not deceive ourselves, you’re not as ruthless as you’d like me to believe.”
I take a step closer, my voice dropping.
“There’s a chasm between having claws and wielding them with precision. And you?”
My gaze drags over her, lingering just long enough to make my point.
“You’re still in the process of refinement.”
Her expression flickers, eyes narrowing, but she pointedly steers the conversation back to her bouquet.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I had no hand in orchestrating this spectacle.”
She pauses, as if considering whether to say more, then exhales, her voice quieter, almost reluctant.
“But if you must know, I find them rather striking. The hue. The rarity. There’s something singular about them, distinct, unforgettable. They’re swiftly becoming a preference of mine.”
Something sharp coils in my chest. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.
And I fucking hate it.
I don’t know why the hell her words get under my skin, why the simple fact that she likes something makes me want to drown her in it. To see every goddamn room she walks into flooded with those flowers. To make sure she never has to settle for something chosen by another hand.
The thought is irrational. Infuriating.
Because that’s not in my nature. I have no inclination for such trivialities.
And yet, for reasons I refuse to acknowledge, the idea of her favourites suddenly matters. It lingers, an irritation, a thorn buried deep, festering beneath the surface.
Inside, the reception is already in motion, the air thick with low murmurs and laughter edged with calculation. Conversations laced with ambition, with carefully veiled threats. The scent of wealth and power clings to the room like expensive cologne, masking the rot beneath.
The Camorra. The Outfit. The Sicilian Mafia.
The Salvatores. The Morettis. The Riccis.
Three names. Three empires. Bound together in a pact sealed with vows and veiled threats.
And beyond them, vultures in tailored suits. Allies and parasites alike, waiting to see how this marriage shifts the balance of power. Watching. Judging.
Among them are the men who kneel to me, families bound by blood and fear, their loyalty not a choice but an expectation. Their presence here isn’t a gesture of goodwill. It’s an obligation. A silent reminder of who owns them.
All gathered under one roof.
The weight of their stares follows us as we step inside, the tension in the room coiling like a wire pulled too tight. Restraint barely leashed, tempers simmering beneath polished smiles. And they all know one thing, there is no middle ground. You stand with me, or you become nothing.
Harlow doesn’t falter. She doesn’t shrink under their eyes, doesn’t stumble under the crushing weight of what this night represents. Good. She’ll need that spine of steel if she wants to survive at my side.
A waiter glides past, and I pluck two flutes of champagne from his tray, handing one to her.
She acknowledges him with a nod and a small smile.
The bastard dares to return it, but his gaze flickers downward, lower than it should, lingering where it has no business being.
I don’t think. There is no rationality to this.
My hand shoots out, seizing him by the collar in a vice grip. His tray crashes to the floor, glass shattering, golden liquid splattering across the marble like spilled decadence. The sharp crack of destruction fractures the air, drawing every pair of eyes in the room.
His face flushes crimson as I haul him off his feet, his toes barely grazing the ground.
“You dare lay your eyes upon my wife?”
My voice is lethal. Designed to carve fear into his very bones.
“What gives you the misguided notion that you have the right to even look at her?”
I yank him forward, my grip tightening like a noose, choking off whatever pathetic excuse he might have offered.
“You are nothing. A stain. A fucking insect crawling where it doesn’t belong.”
I lean in, my breath a whisper of death against his ear.
“And I don’t swat insects, I grind them into the dirt. I make them disappear.”
His pulse stammers beneath my hold, panic bleeding into his expression. Good.
“You do not look at her.”
My words are slow, each syllable laced with quiet, venomous warning.
“You do not speak to her. You do not even fucking breathe in her direction.”
I shove him back, watching with cold indifference as he stumbles, arms flailing, before hitting the ground with a strangled gasp. I take a step forward, looming over him like a shadow cast by death itself. My voice drops to something crueller.
“Cross my path again, and I won’t waste my breath on warnings.”
He gulps frantically, eyes wide with the unmistakable terror of a man who knows he's mere seconds from annihilation. “Run.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He scrambles to his feet, tripping over himself in his desperation to escape, vanishing into the crowd like the insignificant stain he is.
Silence blankets the room, thick, expectant. Whispers slither through the air, women murmuring behind their delicate masks of propriety, eager to sink their teeth into scandal. The sound grates on my nerves.
“There’s nothing to fucking see here.”
My voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and merciless. My gaze sweeps over the room, daring anyone, challenging them, to make the mistake of meeting my eyes.
“Mind your own goddamn business before I make it mine.”
I am met with silence, no one daring to breathe before the tension snaps back into place. I exhale, my expression smoothing with the ease of a man who has mastered the art of deception. A shift. A mask.
“Enjoy the party.”
Turning, I fix my attention on my wife.
Harlow smirks, the rim of her glass brushing her lips as she sips her champagne, golden eyes shimmering with unrestrained amusement.
“That was quite the performance you put on out there.”
She muses.
“No one looks at you.”
My voice is even, unwavering.
“And they sure as hell don’t gawk at what belongs to me.”
I let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of my next words before I deliver them with quiet finality.
“You are mine. My wife. My possession. And I am not the kind of man who shares.”
Her smirk only deepens, untouched by my taunt. She tilts her head, amusement flickering in her gaze, teasing, testing. “Jealous?”
The single word drips with provocation, as if daring me to admit the obvious.
“What if I want them to look?”
I step closer, invading her space, my voice a low whisper against her ear, intimate, dangerous.
“Don’t test me, Harlow.” I warn.
She exhales sharply, but I don’t give her the chance to speak before I murmur.
“Don’t make me tie you to my bed and fuck you raw until every inch of your body bears my mark, so there’s no question who owns you.”
A shudder rips through her.
I smirk.
“But then again…”
My fingers skim down her arm, a lingering threat disguised as a caress.
“We both know you’d enjoy that far too much.”
Her lips part, a retort forming, but the words never come, as the air shifts, thick with tension, the crackling heat between us snuffed out in an instant.
Movement catches my eye, drawing my attention from Harlow just as Giovanni Ricci steps forward, his sons flanking him like shadows. Even in a room full of powerful men, they carry themselves like kings, demanding attention without a word. It’s an old trick, one I’ve seen before, one I don’t give a shit about.
My jaw tightens. Fucking Ricci.
He moves with the arrogance of a man who believes the world bends to his will, his sons mirroring his every step like well-trained disciples.
My grip on Harlow tightens for the briefest second before I force myself to release her, my smirk sharpening as my gaze locks onto Ricci’s.
He might have given her his blood.
But I’m the one who claims her now.
Harlow stiffens beside me. I doubt she’s accustomed to thinking of them as family yet.
Giovanni’s gaze drifts over her. There’s a restraint in the way he looks, the careful hesitance of a man unsure of his place, uncertain of how much space he’s permitted to take. Then, with the quiet weight of a father still learning how to stand in that role, he speaks.
“Auguri a entrambi.”
Tension hums beneath the words.
My wife inclines her head slightly. “Grazie.”
His lips press into something that isn’t quite a smile, yet there’s a flicker beneath it. Pride, perhaps. A reluctant acknowledgment. But whatever it is, it’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it surfaced as his attention shifts to me.
“I trust my daughter will be taken care of.”
I hold his gaze, letting the words settle before tilting my head, my smirk taunting.
“Are you implying I can’t take care of my possessions, Ricci?”
His jaw tightens, his composure slipping just enough to reveal the simmering fury beneath.
“She is not a possession, Salvatore.”
The words are sharp.
I let out a low, derisive chuckle.
“Look at you, preaching about possession, when you so elegantly signed away your own flesh and blood. Ink on paper, and just like that, your daughter, sold off like livestock.”
At my words, Enzo surges forward, his movements fuelled by instinct, by rage. His fist clenches, ready to swing, but Darion is faster. With a firm hand on his chest, he halts him, a quiet warning passing between brothers.
I don’t move.
Instead, I turn my attention to Enzo, my smirk slow, daring him to be stupid enough to try.
He doesn't. But the fury burning in his dark eyes is almost enough to amuse me.
As I look back at Giovanni, his jaw tight, and for the first time, I see a flicker of hurt in his eyes as he looks at Harlow. It’s brief, barely there, but it’s real. And it’s not what gets under my skin.
No.
It’s my wife’s expression that does.
Harlow isn’t looking at her father with the usual fire, with the defiance I’ve come to expect. No, her face mirrors his, the same goddamn hurt.
I don’t know why it irritates me.
I don’t know why I care.
But I do. And that realization alone pisses me off more than anything else in this room.
I shut the feeling down, bury it beneath the indifference I’ve mastered. My smirk remains intact as I drag my gaze back to Ricci.
“Let’s not waste our time anymore. Whether you like it or not, she belongs to me now.”
His fists clench at his sides, but he doesn’t argue. Maybe he knows there’s no point. Maybe he understands that despite the blood tying them together, she is not his to protect. However, the look in his eyes tells me one thing, he fucking hates it.
And for reasons I refuse to acknowledge, so does she.
Enzo steps forward, the fury in his eyes still burning, barely leashed. If looks could kill, I’d already be six feet under. His dark gaze flicks to Harlow, tension rippling through his frame. He’s the one she knows best, the one who, out of all of them, doesn’t feel like a stranger.
But I can tell, this moment isn’t easy for him.
A lifetime apart can’t be bridged in a single night, and judging by the sharpness in his features, he has no intention of pretending otherwise. Still, he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls her in, his grip solid, protective, but stiff.
“Should’ve never come to this,”
he mutters. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“And yet, here we are, nevertheless.”
Harlow hesitates, but after a beat, she lets herself be wrapped in the hug. Enzo holds on longer than necessary, as if memorizing the weight of her, before pulling back just enough to look her in the eye.
“If anyone gives you trouble, you come to me.”
His voice is low, edged with promise, but there’s no mistaking where his anger is directed. It isn’t at her. It’s at me.
I smirk, letting him glower all he wants.
Niccolò steps up next, slower. He doesn’t reach for her immediately, just tilts his head, dark amusement glinting behind the cold detachment in his stare.
“Strange. Never imagined having a little sister. But now that I do...”
His smirk is all teeth.
“Guess I’ll have to start collecting bodies for you, huh?”
Harlow lets out a short laugh, but I don’t miss the flicker of unease in her expression.
“You sound a little too excited about that.”
He shrugs, unbothered.
“What can I say? Some men deserve it.”
His gaze slides to me.
“Maybe I should start with your husband.”
I turn to him, meeting his stare head on.
“That wasn’t a threat, was it? Even you aren’t that fucking stupid.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, but there’s no humour in it. The way he said it, calm, matter of fact, like he’s already picturing my body in a grave, tells me he means it.
I smirk. Good.
Before Harlow can respond, he pulls her in for a quick embrace, a sharp contrast to the cold detachment that lingered just moments before. Then, just as fast, he releases her and steps back, his eyes cutting to me one last time.
And then, there’s Darion. The eldest. His gaze lingers on me first, and I meet it unbothered. Finally, without a word, he moves past, and grips Harlow, pulling her in with an unyielding hold. No restraint.
“You’re a Ricci,”
he murmurs against her hair.
“That means something. That carries weight. And whether you wanted this or not, you don’t stand alone.”
His grip tightens, just slightly, before he releases her. When he pulls back, he doesn’t let her go completely, not right away. Harlow blinks, her composure slipping just for a fraction of a second before she schools her features again.
I smirk, watching as she absorbs it all.
A family she never sought.
Men who would raze kingdoms in her name.
Men who would relish the chance to see me reduced to ash.
Not that it matters.
Because whether they accept it or not, she wears my name now. And any second thoughts are far too late.
Giovanni’s gaze settles on me once more, steady and weighted.
“I trust you’ll remember what she means to us now.”
I meet his stare.
“No need to remind me. She belongs to me, and I protect what’s mine. Stay out of it.”
His expression doesn’t shift, not at first. Then, with a nod, he concedes. Nothing more. No parting words, no final warnings. And just like that, the Riccis step away, fading into the sea of power that floods the room.
I turn my attention back to Harlow, watching the slight movement of her fingers as they tighten around the stem of her champagne glass. Not a flicker of emotion crosses her face.
“Didn’t expect all that attention, did you?”
My voice is low, edged with amusement.
She exhales.
“Not exactly.”
I smirk.
“Get used to it, leonessa. You’re not just anyone anymore.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, cool and steady.
“I never was.”
And that’s what I like about her.
She doesn’t bend.
She doesn’t break.
***
The wedding progresses in waves of conversation and formalities, each moment blurring into the next. But soon it’s time for our wedding dance.
I reach for Harlow’s hand. She stills, just for a second, but she doesn’t pull away. The music shifts, the opening notes of “Ti Amo”
filling the room, low, sensual, haunting. A song about love, devotion, forever.
What a fucking joke.
I pull her close, my hand settling at the curve of her back, fingers curling around hers. She places her free hand on my shoulder, but there’s tension in her fingertips, stiffness in the way she holds herself.
“Relax, leonessa.”
I murmur against her ear, bending slightly to close the distance. My breath ghosts over her skin, and I feel the way she tenses before forcing herself to exhale. But she listens.
I smirk, my voice dropping even lower.
“Good girl.”
Her breath catches, sharp and unsteady, like she wasn’t expecting the praise, like she resents how easily she responded to it.
The dance begins slow, fluid, our movements in sync despite the charged energy crackling between us. I guide her into a turn, circling before drawing her flush against me. A quiet gasp escapes as our bodies align. My fingers press firmly into the delicate curve of her spine, keeping her grounded. Harlow’s eyes widen, her cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted.
Everyone is watching, but for a moment, it doesn’t matter. I drag my fingers along her lower back, pulling her even closer. She sucks in a breath, a reaction she tries to hide but fails. When the final note of the song echoes through the room, I don’t let her step away.
She tries.
But I grip the small of her back, keeping her right where I want her. Her breasts press against my chest, her pulse hammering beneath my fingers.
“Stop fucking running from me, Leonessa,”
I whisper, my lips brushing her ear.
“I love a good chase.”
Before she can respond, applause and cheers erupt around the room. People flood toward us, offering congratulations, taking up her attention. And it grates on me.
I don’t know when it started, this irritation, this possessiveness, but it’s there, a constant, simmering thing beneath my skin. It coils tighter with every interruption, every smiling guest who steals another sliver of her time.
My patience is wearing dangerously thin, my grip on restraint fraying. I want this fucking night to be over. Amidst the noise, the laughter, and the ceaseless movement around us, a voice cuts through, steady and familiar, its edge carrying just enough weight to demand notice. “Zio.”
I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
Leonardo.
I haven’t seen him since he left Palermo that day, since he disappeared back into his carefully curated world of academia. Unlike the rest of us, who deal in blood and violence, he walks in circles lined with prestige and power, lecturing at one of the most elite universities for our kind. A place where the sons and daughters of mafia royalty are groomed for the roles they’ll inevitably inherit.
I never wanted him in that position. Never trusted the idea of him embedding himself in that world, pretending to be an educator. But he insisted. Said it was crucial for the Camorra. He never elaborated on why.
I didn’t push. Not yet.
Because Leonardo doesn’t do anything without intent. And whatever he's after, I know it’s not as simple as he claims.
When I finally turn, he’s standing just a few feet away, dressed in a suit that’s too refined for a man who claims to live among students. His dark gaze flicks between Harlow and me, unreadable at first, until the corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly, his smirk carrying a trace of something just shy of amusement.
“You’re looking well, better than last time I saw you. Must be the change in surroundings.”
His attention remains fixed on my wife.
There’s nothing overtly wrong with his words, but they grate on me anyway. The way he says them. The way her eyes meet his, even if just for a moment.
It sits wrong. Twists something in my gut.
Because the last time they met, she believed he was meant to be her husband.
Would she have chosen him, given the chance?
The thought alone makes my jaw tighten, and I shouldn’t fucking care. Leonardo lets the moment stretch, dragging it out, testing, provoking, because of course he fucking would. Before I can put an end to it, two more familiar faces join us.
Sofia, Harlow’s cousin, slips effortlessly into the space beside her, pulling my wife into conversation. It’s a welcome shift, something easy, something that doesn’t make my blood fucking boil.
Elena, however, lingers. She doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t immediately acknowledge Leonardo. When she finally does, her voice is cool, her expression impassive.
“Salvatore.”
“Elena.”
His smirk deepens, amusement threading through his tone like a quiet taunt. She remains unaffected, her indifference sharper than any retort. She refuses to indulge him, offering nothing more, not a flicker of reaction, not even the satisfaction of a glance held too long.
For a moment, something fractures in Leonardo’s carefully crafted fa?ade. It’s subtle, barely there, but I catch it, the way his gaze lingers on her a second too long, the brief clench of his jaw. His smirk falters before he smooths it over, masking whatever reaction had threatened to surface.
My gaze sharpens as I take them in.
They know each other.
How?
Does she attend the university? Have their paths crossed before? The questions churn, unwelcome and unanswered, a disruption I refuse to tolerate. I need clarity. I need control. And I’ll be damned if I let this slip through my fingers. Even as she turns away, engaging with the other two women, his attention persists. Watching her every movement.
Then, as if snapping himself out of it, he shifts his focus back to me.
“You seem tense, zio.”
He murmurs, his voice low enough for only me to hear.
Because he fucking can’t help himself, he leans in and adds.
“Envious that Harlow belonged to me first?”
The air between us tightens like a noose. The insult is intentional. When I finally speak, my voice is deadly.
“You want to test me tonight, Leonardo?”
My stare doesn’t waver.
“Go ahead. See how that plays out.”
My voice drops lower, the threat settling between us.
“Say those words again, and I don’t care that we share blood, I’ll fucking end you.”
Leonardo exhales, before shaking his head with mock disappointment. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. This is exactly what he wanted.
“Relax, zio,”
he drawls, his amusement unmistakable.
“I’m only here to celebrate your big day.”
His hand lands on my shoulder. But before I can knock it away, he’s already pulling back, disappearing into the crowd, his presence slipping away like smoke. I shift my attention back to Harlow. The women nowhere to be seen. She’s alone now, watching me. Her eyes assessing and enigmatic, before she turns back toward the gathering.
By the time the cake cutting approaches, I’m so fucking ready for this farce to be over. The night has dragged, filled with men approaching me, talking business, fishing for open opportunities. Every handshake, every offer, every thinly veiled attempt at aligning themselves with me has worn my patience raw. If one more fucker addresses me again, I swear, I’ll choke him.
Mattia appears at my side, his face slightly flushed from running around all evening. He spent the night playing with the other kids, free of the weight that comes with our name.
It’s good to see him like this, for once.
He moves closer to Harlow, standing beside her, as he watches intently. An unrecognizable weight settles in my chest as I observe them.
She kneels slightly, meeting his height.
“Did you enjoy the cake?”
Mattia shrugs, nonchalant.
“It’s okay. I’ve had better.”
Harlow smirks.
“Tough critic.”
He shifts nervously on his feet before glancing up at her.
“Do you… wanna dance?”
The organ I once believed incapable of functioning properly clenches tight in my chest.
Harlow blinks, caught off guard, but her expression softens almost instantly.
“I would love to.”
I watch as she takes his small hand, leading him toward the dance floor. His steps are uncertain, but she guides him with ease, matching his pace, offering quiet reassurance.
The sight stirs something deep within me, a sensation I don’t have a name for, one I refuse to acknowledge.
The night winds down. Goodbyes are exchanged, Harlow offering quiet farewells to her family before scanning the room. “Mattia,”
she calls softly.
He steps forward, and she offers him a small smile.
“Let’s go.”
I don’t know why it affects me, why something so simple settles in my chest the way it does. But I like that she cares about my son, even if she hasn’t realized it herself yet.
The three of us move toward the waiting car. Mario approaches, his posture sharp, every movement crisp with purpose.
“Everything’s secure,”
he says, in a dry tone.
“No disturbances. Not that I expected any, but you never know. A wedding without at least one attempted murder feels almost disappointing.”
I exhale, amusement ghosting through me.
“We should aim higher next time.”
He smirks.
“I’ll send out invitations.”
Then his gaze flicks toward Harlow, briefly assessing, before returning to me.
“You’re heading out?”
I incline my head.
“Indeed. See to it that everything remains in order.”
Mario crosses his arms, his smirk shifting into something more knowing.
“Of course, boss. Go enjoy your wedding night.”
I don’t dignify that with a response, just level him with a look that promises retribution. He grins, unfazed, as I slide into the car. The door shuts behind me, sealing off the night.
Harlow settles between Mattia and me, the fabric of her gown spilling over the seat, her scent lingering in the air, still fucking with my head.
It’s time to finally go home.