Chapter 23
Gina
Tommaso’s kiss feels like it seals my fate. Of course, it isn’t the first time we’ve kissed, but it feels different…more final. But also, like it’s the official start of something exciting and beautiful.
I fall into him and his claiming kiss, heedless of the people around us. And when he finally breaks it, I’m dizzy, my lips swollen.
We sign the legal documents—Tommaso really went all out for this, acting like it’s a marriage, not a vow renewal. My heart beats for this man and how he wants me to remember everything about our marriage this time.
Then I’m swallowed by Silvio and Marco, who hug me tightly while they grin and ‘welcome me to the family’.
Etta, Adolfo, and Jerome are next. They’re family because we’ve never truly had that staff-employer vibe.
Plus, they’ve helped me rediscover that I love baking and cooking, and they’re helping me rediscover myself.
Marco holds out his hand and asks me, “May I?”
I glance at Tommaso, who smiles with a nod, then I turn back to Marco and hold out my hand.
He doesn’t take my hand, though, and instead he places a bracelet around my wrist and secures the clasp.
“In our family, it's tradition to give a gift of our family’s crest to our brother’s chosen one.
” His eyes flick to Tommaso, then he smiles at me.
“We weren’t able to do this before at your first wedding, and it’s my honor to do it now. ”
Tears mist my eyes as I study the bracelet with a medallion of the Santoro family crest. “Thank you.”
“Let’s celebrate,” Silvio calls out and pops a champagne bottle while Etta gathers glasses.
Tommaso pulls me into his side. “Only a few sips for you.” When I start to protest, he shakes his head. “You’re still recovering from your subdural hematoma.”
I want to roll my eyes at him, but don’t argue because secretly his damn-near-obsessive protectiveness of me is my kryptonite.
Once Silvio has made a rowdy and blush-inducing toast, we all head into the dining room.
It’s a large room, though I don’t know if any room in this beautiful home would be considered small.
The wide, long table easily seats twelve and can be expanded to fit more.
It was delivered after I told Tommaso I wanted something simple yet beautiful that would fit us, our children, and their future partners.
I’m already planning well into the future.
The dark mahogany table gleams under the crystal chandelier, and the room has paintings on the walls and a few sculptures placed around. It’s tastefully and elegantly decorated, though, not in an in-your-face, over-the-top way that tries to scream wealth.
Silvio pours drinks at the sidebar, and Etta, Adolfo, and Jerome enter, carrying platters and bowls of food. As Tommaso and I discussed, he orders them to sit at the table rather than serve us; we’ll all eat together.
They protest as I knew they would, which is why I had Tommaso issue them the order, but they relent, and soon, we’re all around the table, passing the dishes back and forth, with happy chatter and laughter.
This is the exact feeling I imagined and longed for.
It’s relaxed and close-knit, not something formal and stuffy where I feel like I’m on display.
Flashes of memory push in of me sitting at a dining room table, but in a room that felt gaudy, and where I felt like I was on display, particularly for two men across from me.
One is a large, burly, older man who eyes me with a cunning look.
The other is smaller with dark hair and the same color eyes as mine.
His look is conniving and calculated, and with the vivid memory, that feeling of nausea and throbbing head pain pushes in.
Then more flashes of memory push in of that second man, but when he’s younger. Kinder looking. His eyes don’t have that conniving look, but a loving one, and the feeling of nausea and throbbing pain within me eases.
I’m a small girl, holding his hand while we walk and eat ice cream. I laugh and call him Babbo.
“Gina?”
I jolt out of the flashes of memory, but I’m back in that gaudy room, at that table where the men are watching me closely. Tommaso is there beside me, but he’s not dressed in the same clothes as he wore when we got married.
But I blink, and then he’s before me, wearing the clothes he wore when we married today, and I know I’m no longer looking at the memory version of him.
He’s concerned and worried, and I realize the conversation around the table has stopped.
Tommaso’s hand curls around my nape. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, just a brief flash of memory.” His hand tightens as he stares into my eyes, and I brush my hand over his cheek. “I’m fine. Truly.”
The conversation resumes, and we eat, Tommaso keeping his hand on my thigh while we do. I push my flashes of memory aside. I’ll reflect on them later, but for now, I give all my attention to my husband and our wedding guests.
It’s a leisurely, relaxed meal, and one we draw out with laughter as Marco and Silvio tell me stories of Tommaso’s antics growing up. Even Adolfo, Jerome, and Etta chime in; their affection and loyalty evident, and it makes my love for this man grow.
He’s powerful; that much is clear. But he’s also compassionate and loyal.
A strong leader. I glance at the ring he wears with his family crest, catching sight of the lion’s head, and I’m flung back into another flash of memory to where Tommaso and I are in a small coffee and pastry shop, with the older Italian couple I’m in a picture with.
“Are you okay?” I ask Tommaso.
“He is fine,” the older woman says in Italian. “Aren’t you, re leone?”
“Re leone?” I ask. “I guess Lion King fits.” I smirk at him.
“You think I’m a lion?”
“King of the jungle? Top of the food chain?”
He leans over and wipes some foam from my cappuccino off the corner of my mouth with his thumb. “You forgot apex predator.”
My pulse jumps at his touch as much as his words.
There’s a touch on my neck, and I’m pulled back to the present.
Tommaso’s hand rests on the side of my neck, his thumb running over my pulse. He studies me closely, his brow knitted with concern.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him.
And I am. That flash of memory brought happiness, not nausea and phantom pain that seemed to warn me that I didn’t want to remember that one man.
I fight to stifle a yawn.
Tommaso pushes back his chair, bending down and scooping me into his arms. “My wife is tired.”
“Tommaso,” I protest, squirming. “I’m fine.” I look around at the table, still filled with dishes. “We need to help clean up.”
Etta nearly faints in horror and protests, speaking in rapid Italian that I am most certainly not helping to clean up at my wedding.
Marco gives me a soft smile. “Silvio and I will help.”
“You two get out of here.” Silvio points at the door.
Tommaso doesn’t need any more coaxing. Not that he truly needed permission; this man is the king. Even with no memories, I knew that the moment I saw him. With some people, you don’t need to be told, because you can instinctively feel it.
Tommaso growls in my ear, “You’re all mine now, wife.”
My core clenches at the possessive heat in his tone, calling me wife, and the feel of his hard, strong body pressed against me while he carries me in his arms.
I’ve been dreaming about this moment for weeks. Dreaming of him officially claiming me as his. Of me offering him my virginity. Of him filling me. Hoping and praying I’ll carry his child soon.
Snuggling into his chest, I don’t protest as he carries me through the house and up the stairs to the wing where our bedroom is. But when he closes the door with his foot, and I gaze at the four-poster bed, my heart starts to gallop like a racehorse.
“What is it, il mio sole?” Tommaso sets me on my feet, holding my waist and keeping me close.
“I should get ready or something.” I bite my lip, kicking myself that I didn’t think of this part. Tommaso had arranged everything for our wedding, or I guess, our vow renewal, except for the food, which I decided on the menu and helped prepare.
“You’re perfect as is, wife.”
My core clenches when he calls me that. There’s something soul-deeply satisfying about it.
He cocks his head to the side, looking down at me. There’s that heated look of desire and love, but right now it’s the lion, the king of the jungle, ruler of his kingdom, looking down at me. It’s the apex predator.
There’s such a dark hunger that rolls off him in waves that I shiver. I’m not alarmed or scared; it’s thrilling, consuming, to be wanted and needed so badly by this man.
“Would you like to dress in some virginal white lingerie?” He takes a step toward me, and I take one back, my body thrumming to life. “Only to have me rip it from your body?” Another step forward, and I take another one back, my sex starting to pulse.
He looks on the verge of losing control, and I’ve never seen him like this. Yes, I’ve seen flashes of it while he worshipped my body and made me come, but never anything so raw. So visceral, so primal.
Tommaso prides himself on calm and control, but right now, that’s unraveling, and he looks…unhinged.
“Do you want me to desecrate your innocence?”
Another step forward, followed by mine back. My heart races and my core is leaking by the time the back of my legs hit the bed.
“Do you want me to take what’s mine?”
I whimper, staring up at him, not understanding what’s happening, just knowing that I want it. “Yes.”
A smile curls his lips. “I don’t need you in virginal white lingerie.” His large, scarred hand grips the bodice of my strapless gown. The sound of the silk fabric ripping fills the room, followed by my jerky gasp.
My breasts spring free, having only been held up by the dress. Another rip fills the room as he completely destroys the beautiful dress, and it slides over my hips and down my legs.
“Tommaso,” I half-gasp, half-moan.