67 | Maybe I should give this a chance?
The dining room looms before us, its grandeur a stark contrast to the raw intimacy of last night.
My heart's still racing from Luciano's touch, from the way he carried me up the stairs, his confession of love echoing in my bones.
Now, stepping into this room with him, his hand firm in mine, I feel the weight of every eye turning toward us.
The Costa family is already seated, Nonna at one end, her face lit with a smug satisfaction that makes my skin prickle; his mother, usually cold as marble, looking softer today, her eyes carrying a lightness I've never seen, while his sisters are watching me with wary curiosity, like they're waiting for me to bolt or break.
I'm not sure what they see in me, but their gazes are heavy, pinning me in place.
Luciano's grip tightens, grounding me, and he leads me not to my usual seat across the table, distant and safe, but to the chair beside him, right at his side.
He pulls the chair out for me, a gesture so gentle it's almost foreign, and I sit, the polished wood cool against my thighs through the pink dress I chose this morning.
It's weird, sitting here, so close to him, his presence a heat I can't ignore.
I'm tense, my shoulders stiff, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the family's judgment or Luciano's walls to snap back up.
But there's a lightness too, a weight lifted off my chest, because he's not my enemy anymore. Not after last night, not after he knelt for me, bared his soul, and promised me forever.
He takes his place at the head of the table, his dark suit sharp against the morning light, and I feel the shift in the room, the way everyone leans toward him, drawn to his gravity.
But his focus is on me, his hand still holding mine under the table, a quiet anchor.
Nonna clears her throat, her voice cutting through the clink of silverware.
"I have never been happier in my life," she says, her tone thick with emotion, her eyes gleaming. "I never thought this day would come."
Luciano raises an eyebrow, sipping his coffee, his lips twitching with amusement.
"Why are you always crying, Nonna?" he asks, his voice light but teasing, a warmth in it that makes my heart stutter.
She laughs, a sharp, knowing sound, and points a finger at him. "You're the one to talk, Luciano. You were the one crying last night."
My breath catches, and I feel the heat creep up my cheeks, because she's right, he was, on his knees, pouring out his love, his fear, his everything.
The memory burns, vivid and raw, and I glance at him, wondering if he'll brush it off, hide behind a mask.
But he doesn't.
He sets his coffee down, his eyes finding mine, and there's no shame in them, just a steady, unflinching intensity that makes my pulse race.
His hand, still clasped with mine, moves, sliding from my fingers to rest on my thigh, a bold, warm weight through the fabric of my dress.
I freeze, my body tensing instinctively, because I've never let him this close, never let him touch me like this, so openly, so possessively.
The contact shocks me, a jolt that sparks through my nerves, and I wait for the urge to pull away, but it doesn't come. Instead, there's a warmth spreading from where his hand rests, a quiet invitation that feels... right.
Maybe I should give this a chance?
The thought is terrifying, reckless, because loving Luciano is like stepping into a storm, beautiful, dangerous, all-consuming.
But last night, when he carried me, when he looked at me like I was his world, I felt it too, the pull, the need, the thing that's been growing between us despite my fear.
His fingers flex slightly, not demanding, just there, a reminder of his presence, and I look at him.
His dark brown eyes are locked on mine, like he's seeing every doubt, every hope I'm trying to hide.
The corner of his mouth lifts, a ghost of a smile, and it's like he knows, he knows I'm teetering on the edge, knows I'm scared but staying.
I glance around the table, catching Nonna's approving nod, his mother's faint smile, his sisters' wary glances softening into something like relief.
They see it too, the shift, the way we're not just husband and wife by obligation anymore, but something deeper, something real.
I shift in my seat, my thigh brushing his hand, and he doesn't move, doesn't pull away.
It's a small thing, but it feels huge, like a promise he's making without words.
My heart's pounding, a mix of fear and want, because I've spent so long fighting this, fighting him. But sitting here, with his touch grounding me, his family watching us like we're a miracle, I wonder if I can let go.
If I can let myself love him, touch him, trust him, without losing myself in the process.
"Aurelia," he says, his voice low, meant only for me, and my name in his mouth is a caress.
His hand stays on my thigh, steady, warm, and I meet his gaze, my breath catching at the depth there, the care that's always been his truth, even when I couldn't see it.
I don't know what this day will bring, what shadows wait outside this room, but for now, I'm here, beside him.