Chapter 33
DANTE
The Don of New Orleans, banished from his own bedroom by a five-foot-two grandmother with opinions about tradition.
Cristo.
“Bad luck,” Nonna Rosa declares, hands on her hips, blocking the hallway like she’s guarding the gates of heaven. “You don’t see the bride before the wedding. That’s final.”
“Nonna Rosa. It’s my house.”
“It’s the rules.”
Giada appears behind her, arms crossed, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. “One night, Dante. You’ll survive.”
“I’ve been sleeping next to her for weeks.”
“And tonight you won’t be.”
Renzo materializes from somewhere, because of course he does, and raises an eyebrow.
“Pick your battles, brother.”
I look at the three of them. My grandmother. My sister. My second-in-command. United against me over a superstition I don’t believe in.
“Fine.”
Nonna beams. Giada pats my arm like I’m a child who just agreed to eat his vegetables. Renzo’s mouth twitches, which for him is laughter.
Cazzo. Outnumbered in my own home.
I grab a pillow from the hall closet and head for the study.
Going to be a long goddamn night.
The study is quiet in a way the rest of the compound isn’t. Papa’s books line the walls. The maps I’ve stared at since I took over hang in their frames. The silence presses in, deliberate, like the room is holding its breath along with me.
I haven’t touched the whiskey. Cassia would worry if she smelled it on me tomorrow. And I want to remember everything. Every word of the vows. Every expression on her face. Every second of the moment she becomes mine in front of everyone who ever doubted either of us.
The leather chair creaks as I shift. I should try to sleep.
I won’t.
The door opens.
She’s wearing one of my shirts. The white one, too big for her, hanging past her thighs. Bare feet on the hardwood. Hair loose around her shoulders, dark waves catching the lamplight.
Tesoro. The word rises before I can stop it. Treasure. Standing in my doorway like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know.” She closes the door behind her. Leans against it. “I don’t care.”
Neither do I.
“Nonna Rosa will have my head if she finds out.”
“Nonna Rosa’s asleep.” Cassia pushes off the door, crosses the room, settles onto the arm of my chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I checked.”
“Reconnaissance.” I pull her down into my lap, and she comes willingly, curling against my chest. “Thorough.”
“I learned from the best.”
We sit like that. Her warmth against me. Her heartbeat steady beneath my palm.
Tomorrow this woman becomes my wife. Again. For real this time.
“Do you remember the first time you walked into this room?” I ask.
She laughs, low and warm. “Burgundy dress. Shaking hands. Trying not to let you see how terrified I was.”
“You weren’t shaking.”
“I was on the inside.” She tilts her head up. “You looked at me like I was a problem you hadn’t anticipated.”
“You were.” I brush a strand of hair from her face. “The most beautiful problem I’ve ever had.”
“Flatterer.”
“Truth.” I trace the line of her jaw. “I thought I knew what I was getting. A replacement bride. A business arrangement. Someone to fill a role.”
“And instead?”
“Instead you sat in that chair.” I nod toward the seat across from the desk. “Told me you weren’t your sister. And a certainty in your voice made me believe you meant it.”
She’s quiet.
“I was so angry at Elena that day. For running. For leaving us to clean up her mess.” She traces a thread on the chair’s arm. “Didn’t realize until later that she did me a favor.”
“Hell of a favor. Marrying you off to a man who ends people for a living.”
“A man who ends people for a living but brings me coffee without being asked.” Her fingers trace patterns on my chest. “Who noticed I take it with two sugars. Who remembers that I hum when I’m concentrating and can’t sleep without the window cracked.”
“I notice everything about you.”
“I know.” She smiles. “That’s what got me. Not the power or the money or the compound. The fact that you saw me. No one had ever seen me before.”
I think about the woman who walked in here three months ago. Shoulders curved inward. Voice measured. Eyes that expected to be overlooked. And the woman in my arms now, who holds her head high, who speaks without hedging, who claimed her place in this family like she was born to it.
“You’re different,” I tell her. “From that first day.”
“So are you.” She cups my face. “You smiled at me last week. A real smile. Not the one you use for business.”
“I smile.”
“You smirk. You give that terrifying Don look. You do that thing where your eyes go cold and grown men start sweating.” Her thumb brushes my cheekbone.
“But last week, when one of the new soldiers asked Renzo what you were like and I said, straight-faced, ‘He’s a sweetheart. Only threatens people before noon. Very reasonable after coffee.’ You laughed. Nonna Rosa dropped her cup.”
I remember that. The kid had gone pale, trying to figure out if she was serious. Cassia hadn’t cracked. Just sipped her espresso like she’d commented on the weather.
“You’re good for me,” I say. Low, because the admission costs too damn much. “Didn’t expect that.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone useful. Someone who wouldn’t make waves.” I draw her closer. “Not someone who’d take apart everything I thought I knew about myself.”
She’s quiet. Then: “Are you scared? About tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Dante.”
Fuck.
She reads me like a book. Every wall I’ve built, she just walks through.
I exhale. Reach for the desk drawer. Pull out the photograph I’ve been staring at for the past hour.
Cassia takes it with care. Studies the faces. Papa and Mama. Young. Hopeful. Standing under the iron arch wrapped in jasmine. The same arch where we’ll stand tomorrow.
“They look so young,” she says, her voice a thread.
“Twenty-three.” I look at my mother’s face. The smile I can count on one hand. “Younger than us. And they had no idea what was coming.”
She traces the edge of the photograph with her fingertip. Like she’s touching stained glass.
“He kept it in that drawer for thirty-four years,” I say. “I found it when I took over the study. Couldn’t bring myself to move it.”
“You look like her. Around the eyes.”
Something lodges in my throat. My teeth grind against it.
No one’s said that to me in years.
“I want that for us.” The words come out rough. Scraped raw. “Not pretending we’re not scared. Just knowing it’s worth it.”
Cassia shifts in my lap, turning to face me. Her legs bracket my hips. Her hands rest on my shoulders.
“I’m not scared,” she says.
“No?”
“I was scared the day I walked in here. Scared on our wedding night, lying next to you, counting your breaths. Scared when I found the evidence against Romano, when I saw how deep the betrayal went.”
She leans in, forehead touching mine.
“But tomorrow? Standing in that garden? Promising you everything in front of everyone?”
“What?”
“That’s not scary.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “That’s the first thing that’s felt right in my entire life.”
My ribs contract. Every muscle in my chest pulls tight, and I can’t draw a full breath. The back of my eyes burns and I clench my teeth against it because Dio, I’m the Don of New Orleans. I don’t fall apart over a woman in my shirt whispering things I don’t deserve.
But my hands shake where they grip her waist.
“I didn’t think I got to have this.” The words rip out before I can stop them. More wound than voice. “Thought wanting you this much was just another way to get destroyed.”
“And now?”
“Now losing you is the only thing that could.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her left ear. My hand is still unsteady. “And I don’t plan on letting that happen.”
She kisses me. Soft. Certain. A vow before the vows.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests against mine. We breathe the same air. Exist in the same space. I press my thumb to the pulse in her throat. Steady. Mine.
“We should sleep,” she murmurs.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves toward the door.
I shift us instead. Down onto the leather couch that’s witnessed a thousand late nights, a thousand sessions of strategy. I gather her against me, her back to my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist.
The couch is too narrow. My feet hang off the end. Her hair is in my face.
I’ve never been more comfortable in my life.
“Nonna Rosa’s going to kill us,” Cassia mumbles against the leather.
“Worth it.”
“Mmm.” She’s half-asleep, her breathing evening out, her body relaxing into mine. “Love you.”
The words are slurred. She won’t remember saying them.
My lips find her hair. My chest aches. A good ache. The kind that means the walls are down and I don’t have the strength to put them back up.
“Ti amo, tesoro.” I love you, treasure.
“Now sleep. Tomorrow you become my wife.”
“Already am,” she murmurs.
“Not yet. Not the way it counts.” I pull her tighter against me. “But tomorrow, in front of everyone, you’ll be mine and I’ll be yours. No contracts. No arrangements. Just us.”
She hums. Her fingers lace through mine over her stomach. Her breathing deepens and she’s gone, asleep in seconds, trusting me with the full slack of her body.
Cristo. This woman.
I lie there in the dark, holding her, listening to her breathe.
Tomorrow she walks down the aisle in my mother’s garden and says vows that mean something. Tomorrow I stand across from her and make promises I intend to keep with every drop of blood in my body.
The compound settles around us. The night deepens. Somewhere, Nonna Rosa sleeps, unaware that her enforced tradition has been broken.
Good. Let the old woman have her peace. She’ll find out in the morning and give me hell, and I’ll take every word of it because this. Cassia’s breath against my palm. Her spine pressed to my chest. This is worth every goddamn lecture.
I shut my eyes.
For once, I don’t dream of the past.
I dream of her. Laughing in the garden, sunlight caught in her hair, turning to look at me like I’m the only thing in the world.
I wake to the first light of dawn, still tangled together on the couch, her heartbeat steady against my palm.
Today.
She becomes my wife. For real this time.