Chapter 45 Jenna #4
Later, after dinner, the atmosphere shifts. The long banquet tables are cleared, the candles are burning lower now, casting everything in a softer glow. The tension of the day dissolves into laughter, music, the easy hum of people who have survived too much together to stand on ceremony for long.
Massimo takes my hand without a word. He doesn't ask.
He never does. The room quiets just enough as he leads me onto the dance floor, that quiet awareness that follows him everywhere settling over the crowd.
Conversations pause, glasses lower, eyes track us.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, grounding, possessive.
"Don't think," he murmurs, pulling me closer. "Just follow me."
I huff out a quiet breath. "I hate when you say that."
A corner of his mouth lifts. "You never listen anyway."
The music swells, something slow, familiar, and he moves like he was born to it, sure, controlled, guiding me with an ease that makes it impossible to do anything but fall into step with him. Around us, the room begins to stir again. Someone whistles. Enzo, I think.
"About time," a voice calls out, amused.
Massimo ignores it, his focus entirely on me. Which only makes the commentary worse.
"Careful, Jenna," another voice chimes in, teasing. "He gets territorial when people watch."
"He already is," I mutter under my breath.
Massimo hears it. Of course he does. His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me closer, a silent confirmation.
I don't fight it. For once, I let myself sink into it.
By the time the first song ends, the dance floor fills.
Couples drift in, laughter loosens the edges of the room, conversations overlap, glasses clink.
The formality of earlier fades into something warmer, more chaotic, more real.
This is his world. And mine, because it doesn't feel like I'm standing outside of it any longer.
Violet, Marcello's wife, is the first to approach me. She's striking in a quiet way, with observant eyes that seem to miss nothing. Marcello stays close, his hand resting possessively on her back like he's not entirely convinced she won't disappear if he lets go. "Congratulations."
There's something steady about her. Grounded.
"Thank you," I reply, smiling.
My gaze flicks briefly to Marcello, to the way he watches her, like she's something fragile and unbreakable at the same time. There's history there. Heavy. Violet follows my gaze, a hint of amusement touching her lips.
"I used to be his nurse," she explains, like she already knows the question forming. "He was… difficult."
Marcello huffs. "I was dying."
"You were stubborn," she corrects calmly. "There's a difference."
I blink, surprised. "You saved him?"
"Twice," she says simply. Marcello's hand tightens at her waist. Like he remembers every second of it. Like he'll never forget. Something about that settles deep in my chest. The way these men love. It's not soft. But it's absolute.
I move through the room slowly, meeting people in pieces rather than all at once.
Enrico and Cat share easy laughter, with sharp eyes that take everything in.
Antonio and Scarlet. Scarlet is warm, vibrant.
Antonio watches her like she's the only thing in the room that matters.
There are threads between all of them. Stories I don't know yet.
But I really want to. Sophia approaches me.
She is the wife of the New York Don, Raffael DeSantis.
"I hope we're not overwhelming you on your wedding day. "
I say honestly, "It would be, if all of you weren't so nice and warm. Thank you so much for coming."
She hugs me and presses something surreptitiously into my hand, a card.
She winks. "You can read it later. It's an invitation to our The Real Mafia Wives Club.
We do all kinds of fun things, like dig out past histories.
" She winks again, making me think there's a bigger story, but I'm still giggling over the name of their club.
"The card contains links to our texts, emails, and groups.
I hope you'll join us. But beware, the initiation is gruesome. "
"Oh, don't let her fool you," Scarlet links an arm through Sophia's and shakes her head. "The initiation is bringing desert to the next meeting."
I laugh. "That I can do."
A movement to my left draws my attention to Enzo.
He's watching someone. A woman. Older. Fuller.
Soft where the others are sharp. There's something warm about her, something unbothered, as if she exists outside the rules everyone else follows.
I blink to focus on an object in her hand.
Is that… yep, that's a kitchen towel. At a wedding.
"Who is that?" I ask quietly.
The women follow my gaze. Violet, Enzo's daughter, joins us and laughs, lifting her hand to her mouth like she's trying to contain it. "Oh, that is Zia Rosa."
"Zia…?"
"Marcello's aunt," she clarifies. "And don't let the towel fool you."
As if on cue, the woman—Zia Rosa—reaches out, swats one of the men upside the head with it, and keeps talking like nothing happened. I stare. Violet leans closer. "They got… very close last time he was in New York."
I glance back at Enzo. At the way his usual sharp edges have softened. The way he watches her, not like prey, not like strategy. Like something entirely different.
"Really?" I murmur.
Violet nods, her eyes are dancing. "He's completely gone," she whispers. "Didn't stand a chance."
Zia Rosa says something across the room, gesturing with the towel. Enzo straightens immediately. I bite back a smile.
Behind me, Massimo's hand finds my waist again, pulling me back against him, like it's instinct. Like he's always aware of where I am.
"What are you smiling about?" he murmurs against my hair.
I glance over my shoulder, tilting my head toward Enzo. "Apparently, your right-hand man has a weakness."
Massimo follows my gaze. There's a pause. Then, he mutters, "God help us all."
For a moment, I just watch him. The room still hums around us—music, laughter, the low murmur of conversations, but everything feels… lighter. Softer.
Like we made it through something. Like maybe we get to keep this. I lean back into him, letting myself breathe.
That's when Enzo appears, moving with the kind of purpose that never means anything good. He doesn't waste time. The second he's close enough, he lowers his voice. "Someone took Gabe's girl."
"Shit," Massimo mutters, already going still behind me.
My chest tightens for her. I know exactly what that feels like, being taken, being powerless while someone else decides your fate. "Massimo, we need to do something."
Enzo glances between us. "This is your wedding. Damiano, Alessio, and I have it handled. We'll keep you in the loop, boss."
I feel the hesitation ripple through Massimo, the pull between here and there, between me and them. I hate the idea of him leaving. But this is the life I chose. And Gabe, Gabe is family.
"If you need to go…" I start.
Massimo shakes his head before I can finish. "No. Enzo's right. They can handle it."
It's not dismissal. It's trust. The kind that runs bone-deep between men like them.
Enzo nods once and disappears as quickly as he came.
The music swells again. Voices rise. Glasses clink.
Like the world didn't just tilt. Like something terrible isn't already in motion somewhere else.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
Then, because apparently this is who I am now—standing at the center of a mafia wedding while someone is being kidnapped—I murmur, "I know this isn't romantic, but I have to pee."
Massimo goes very still behind me. Then his hand tightens at my waist, like he's anchoring himself there, like he needs the reminder that I'm here. Safe.
"Now?" he asks.
I tilt my head back to look at him. "Yes, now. It's a thing people have to do."
His eyes narrow slightly. Calculating. Hopeful. Suspiciously hopeful. His fingers tighten around mine. "You don't go anywhere alone," he says quietly.
"Come."
I blink. "Massimo—"
But he's already moving, pulling me with him through the crowd, not even bothering to hide it.
"Massimo," I hiss under my breath, trying not to laugh. "We're at our wedding."
"Exactly," he says, not slowing. "Good timing."
I stare at him. "You are unbelievable."
He glances back at me, completely serious. "You could be pregnant."
I open my mouth. Close it. Then laugh despite myself as he pulls me toward the elevator.
By the time we reach the penthouse, I'm half laughing, half shaking my head.
"This is getting ridiculous," I tell him as he pushes the door open.
"You say that every time," he replies calmly.
Because this isn't new. For the past week, there's been a test. Every morning.
Every. Single. Morning.
I swear the man has never been more disciplined about anything in his life. He lets go of my hand long enough to reach for the drawer. I don't even have to look. I know what's inside. A small, perfectly organized stack. I cross my arms. "You bought them in bulk."
He doesn't even try to deny it. "Efficiency."
"Obsession."
"Preparation."
I snort. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he murmurs, holding one out to me, "you married me."
I take it, shaking my head.
"Give me a minute," heading toward the bathroom.
He follows. Of course he does. I stop in the doorway, turning slowly to face him. The look I give him is the same one I've given him every day for the past week. He pauses. Considers. Then lifts his hands slightly in surrender.
"I'll wait."
I raise a brow.
He doesn't move.
"…Outside," he adds.
"Thank you."
"I'm a reasonable man."
I shut the door in his face.
A minute later, I step back out, test in hand. He's exactly where I left him. Pacing. I don't even try to hide my smile.
"Relax," I soothe, setting it down on the counter.
He looks at it like it might explode. Then at me. Then back at it.
"Is it…?"
"It takes a minute," I remind him.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. For a man who commands an entire city, he looks wildly out of his depth right now. I slip my hand into his. He laces our fingers together immediately, his grip tight, grounding.
We stand there. Waiting. Neither of us speaks. The seconds stretch. Longer than they should. Long enough for my heart to start beating a little faster. For the weight of it to settle. What this means. What this could mean.
Massimo's thumb moves over my knuckles, slow, steady. A quiet reassurance. Or maybe he needs it as much as I do.
Then—
A shift. I see it before I fully process it. My breath catches. Massimo's grip tightens.
"Jenna," he breathes loudly.
I look at him.
Then back at the test.
Pregnant.
The word feels unreal for a second. Like it belongs to someone else. I laugh. A soft, breathless sound that turns into something brighter. Real. And so different from the last time I stared at a test in desperation.
"It worked," I whisper.
Massimo doesn't say anything at first. He just stares at it. Then at me. Like he's making sure this is real. His hand comes up to my face, rough and gentle at the same time.
"Again," he says, voice low. I smile, tears already burning behind my eyes. "Again."
His forehead presses to mine, breath warm against my skin.
"I won't miss this," he murmurs. "Not a second."
I shake my head, smiling through it.
"You'd better not."
His mouth curves slightly.
"I won't."
And I believe him.
"Come," he says after a moment, already reaching for my hand again.
"Where are we going?"
His eyes darken, something softer underneath. "To tell our son he's going to be a brother."
My heart flips. I squeeze his hand. "Okay."
This time, when he pulls me forward, I follow.