Chapter 5
DANTE
I am married to the girl I saw crying. Not some distant Irish princess shaped by rumor and politics, but the same woman whose composure fractured less than seventy-two hours ago, whose tears lodged themselves somewhere beneath my ribs and refused to leave.
I have not been able to stop thinking about her since.
I have not wanted to. The feeling that she belongs to me no longer sits in the realm of instinct or imagination. It is fact now, sealed and witnessed.
She stands at the center of the dance floor, light gathering around her as if it recognizes her claim to it, as if she was always meant to be placed beneath chandeliers and watched.
The ivory of her dress glows against her skin, fitted so precisely it feels less like tailoring and more like reverence.
Lace traces her body in intricate patterns, floral and deliberate, rising and falling over her curves as though the fabric learned her by touch.
The neckline rests low and unapologetic, a quiet provocation that makes my jaw tighten every time another man forgets himself and looks too long.
Her hair is pinned up, curls gathered and restrained, though a few have escaped to soften her face.
Pearls rest against the light brown coils like a crown, old-world and understated, a signal of status that does not need permission to exist. The veil trails behind her, sheer and weightless, catching the light each time she turns.
She looks expensive. She looks untouched.
She looks like she already belongs to me.
We have not had a moment alone since the aisle, and the regret claws sharper with every passing second.
I watch the way her dress moves when she turns, how the skirt sways and settles, how the bodice holds her so precisely it borders on restraint.
I imagine what it would feel like to loosen it, to follow the seams with my hands and learn exactly where she yields.
Her voice, when she speaks, is softer than I expected.
The thought of how it would sound broken apart, screaming my name, whimpering, clawing, tightens something dark and impatient inside me.
I want her out of that dress. I want her away from the room, away from the watching eyes, and alone with me, now.
“You're going to break your glass, Principe,” Luca chuckles into my ear, and I reluctantly place the glass onto the table.
“How much longer is this reception?” I ask, leaning back in my chair, watching her.
She dances with her father, Seamus O’Connor, his hand steady at her waist as he guides her through the steps. There is affection there, genuine and unguarded, the kind that does not need to perform for the room. She smiles at him, smaller and more private than the one she offers everyone else.
“Another two hours,” Luca sighs, sliding next to me at the bride and groom table. “You have the groom and bride dance, cut the cake, toast.”
Her eyes flicker in my direction, and her smile irons out on her face. I don’t know what I do to invoke such a look, but I want her to smile at me. I want the shine in her eyes that she only reserves for other members of the Irish Mafia.
“Who planned all of this?” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face as Seamus dips his daughter and the room erupts in applause.
“Your wife,” Luca says, finishing his champagne. “She has good taste.”
I glance sideways at him, just in time to catch the way his gaze lingers too long on her as she straightens, laughter still on her lips.
His mouth curves, slow and knowing, and his tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip before he looks away, as if he has been caught admiring a painting that does not belong to him.
“Luca,” I say quietly, my voice pleasant enough to pass for a joke. “Can you for a second act like you don’t want to fuck my wife?”
“No,” Luca lets out a short laugh, lifting both hands in surrender, but there is amusement in his eyes that I do not appreciate. “I’m a man with eyes, and if this wasn’t the princess you’d be telling me whether I could fuck her in the mouth, or the ass.”
My gaze returns to Rosalina, to the way the light catches in her hair like slices of gold, to the line of her throat as she turns. “If she was not the princess, I would still want her for myself.”
“You wouldn’t share?” Luca scoffs, his tone incredulous, and my attention shifts back to her just as she slips a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and starts toward us.
“Not at first,” I say evenly.
I already know how this works. If she comes to care for me, truly care for me, that affection will not stay contained.
It never does. It will bleed outward, find Luca and Gabriel in time, because that is the blessing and the flaw between the three of us.
When one of us is chosen, the others are never far behind. We are not built to be loved in pieces.
And if anyone is going to survive loving us, they will have to learn how to love all of us, but if I am honest with myself, then yes, I would prolong the inevitable as long as I could.
“Get out of my wife’s seat,” I snarl, looking at a smirking Luca’s face as she watches her approach us.
“You mean our wife,” Luca corrects, as if he knows something I don’t and he slides out of her chair.
I shoot him a look that promises consequence later, but he only laughs under his breath.
He rises anyway, unhurried, and pulls her chair out with exaggerated courtesy.
Rosalina pauses for half a second, her gaze flicking between us, uncertainty threading through her expression before Luca gestures smoothly for her to sit.
“For the lady,” he says, all charm and restraint, as if he hasn’t been provoking me for sport.
She cocks an eyebrow, a suspicious smile on her lips. “Thank you.”
She settles into the chair, champagne flute still in hand, the fabric of her dress whispering against the seat.
Luca pushes her in with a careful hand at the back of the chair, respectful, controlled, and far too aware of my attention.
Then he steps away without another word, leaving her at my side and me with the sudden, undeniable weight of her presence.
I turn to her, close enough now to catch the faint scent of her perfume, honeysuckle and rose.
“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were avoiding your husband,” I murmur low into the curve of her neck, and watch the goosebumps ripple across her skin.
She opens up a satin, white napkin and places it over her lap. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume my husband has two left feet.”
“Excuse me,” I scoff, watching as she continues to cut into the steak that was delivered almost fifteen minutes ago.
She chews a few times before swallowing and looking at me with an incredulous stare. “What?”
“Why would you assume that?” I whisper into her hair.
“Because I have not been hiding. I have been dancing and you have been sitting here like you’re King Midas,” she says, taking another slice of her steak in her mouth.
“I don't dance.”
“So I am correct,” she nods, taking a scoop of mashed potatoes. “You have two left feet.”
“That’s not what I said,” I reply, leaning closer, my mouth near her ear, my voice pitched just for her. “I said I don’t dance.”
“And I said,” she counters calmly, lifting her glass for a small sip of champagne, “that you have been sitting here glaring, instead of dancing.”
A corner of my mouth tugs upward despite myself. “Do I need to dance with you to get your full attention?”
Her eyes slide to mine, slow and assessing, a smile ghosting her lips. “Yes, and since you won’t dance then--”
I stand, offering one hand as the other unbuttons my suit jacket. “Come on, Rosa.”
She hesitates just long enough to make the possibility of refusal linger between us, a quiet challenge in the air, before her fingers slide into mine.
The contact is soft but decisive, sending a subtle shock through me that tightens my hold as I rise and draw her gently from the chair.
The orchestra shifts as if on instinct, the music flowing into something slower, richer, as though they had been waiting for this moment, for me to finally claim her hand and lead her onto the floor.
She expects stiffness, I think, maybe reluctance.
Instead, I draw her close, my hand settling at her waist with an ease that surprises us both.
She fits there naturally, her softness curving into me as if the space was always meant for her, the warmth of her body bleeding through silk and lace until it is all I can feel.
The gentle swell of her hip beneath my palm grounds me.
“You lied,” she murmurs.
“I don’t lie, because I am a bad liar,” I answer, guiding her through the turn with practiced precision. “I said I don’t dance. I did not say I couldn’t.”
Her breath catches, sharp and audible, and for a fleeting second I see the surprise flash across her face before she masters it.
She adjusts against me, tentative at first, then surer, her curves aligning with my frame in a way that feels instinctive rather than learned like she was made for me and she can feel the pull to each other the same way I can.
“So a half truth,” she whispers, grasping my arm a little tighter.
I guide her easily, our steps falling into rhythm, and I cannot stop myself from noticing how perfectly she moves with me, how her body responds as though it recognizes mine.
She smells faintly of champagne and something warmer beneath it, and I think, with an intensity that borders on reverence, that there is no part of her I do not want to know.
“No, you made an assumption,” I correct. “The same way you assumed I was just sitting there glaring at the room.”
“Were you not?” she chuckles, breathless now, the sound dissolving into the space between us as I draw her closer.
I lower my head, my mouth brushing her ear, my words meant for her alone. “Did you not notice I was staring at you?” I murmur, my hand tightening at her waist as the music swells.