Chapter 12
ROSALINA
"We need to leave in twenty minutes."
Dante's voice cuts through the quiet of my doorless bedroom, and I look up from where I am sitting cross-legged on the bed, flipping through a magazine I am not actually reading.
He is standing in the doorway wearing a black suit that fits him so perfectly it has to be custom-made, his hair slicked back, his expression carved from stone.
He looks every inch the Italian mafia prince—powerful, untouchable, dangerous—and the sight of him makes something low in my stomach flutter traitorously.
"Leave for where?" I ask, setting the magazine aside.
"The Italian compound. Family gathering." He adjusts his cufflinks with sharp, precise movements that speak of barely controlled tension. "My father wants to meet you properly."
The way he says father makes it sound like he is talking about an upcoming root canal rather than a family dinner.
"Okay," I say slowly, uncurling from the bed. "What's the dress code?"
"Conservative. Respectful. Traditional." His eyes flick over me—currently wearing leggings and one of Gabriel's t-shirts I may have also stolen. "You need to look like a proper Italian wife."
There is an edge to his voice that I have not heard before, something sharp and strained that makes the air in the room feel heavier.
"Dante—"
"Twenty minutes, Rosalina." He turns and walks away before I can finish the sentence, his footsteps echoing down the hallway with military precision.
I stare at the empty doorway for a long moment, trying to process the tension radiating off him in waves, before I launch myself into action.
Conservative. Respectful. Traditional.
I have exactly one outfit that fits that description—a navy blue dress with a modest neckline and sleeves that go to my elbows, hem that falls just below my knees. It is the kind of dress Seamus would approve of for formal Irish functions, which hopefully translates to Italian family gatherings.
I change quickly, my hands shaking slightly as I zip up the back, twisting my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck, adding small pearl earrings that belonged to my mother—one of the few things I have from before the orphanage.
Minimal makeup. Sensible shoes. I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back—polished and proper and nothing like the girl who was dancing in the kitchen yesterday making sandwiches.
I make it downstairs with two minutes to spare.
Dante is waiting by the front door, and when he sees me his expression shifts slightly—some of the tension easing from his shoulders as his eyes travel over me from head to toe, lingering on the pearls, the modest neckline, the careful way I have presented myself.
"Good," he says simply, offering his arm.
I take it, feeling the corded tension in his muscles even through the expensive fabric of his suit, and we walk to the car in silence.
The drive to the Italian compound takes forty-five minutes, and Dante does not speak for any of them.
He sits beside me in the back of the town car, staring out the window with his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
His hands are fisted on his thighs, knuckles white with pressure, and every few minutes he takes a deliberate breath like he is counting to ten in his head, like he is trying to prevent himself from exploding.
I have never seen him like this—this wound up, this barely controlled, this close to shattering.
"Dante," I say quietly, reaching out to touch his arm.
He flinches slightly at the contact, then seems to force himself to relax, turning to look at me with eyes that are stormy and dark and full of something that looks uncomfortably close to dread. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." The words come out clipped, automatic, a lie we both know he is telling.
"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to put your fist through something."
His jaw works for a moment before he answers, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. "My father has that effect on people."
"Do you want to talk about—"
"No." He turns back to the window, effectively ending the conversation, his shoulders rigid as stone.
I withdraw my hand and fold both of them in my lap, staring down at my pearl earrings reflected in the dark screen of my phone.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable, and I find myself wishing Gabriel or Luca were here to break the tension with a joke or a flirtatious comment or literally anything other than this suffocating quiet.
The car slows, turns into a long driveway flanked by iron gates that swing open automatically.
The compound spreads out before us—massive and imposing, all stone and sharp angles and windows that look like eyes watching our approach.
Guards are positioned at regular intervals along the perimeter, and I count at least six just from what I can see from the car.
This is not a home. This is a fortress.
"Remember," Dante says as the car comes to a stop, and his voice is harder now, colder, stripped of anything soft, "you are my wife. You represent me. You represent our family. Everything you say, everything you do, reflects on both of us."
"I understand," I say, even though the pressure of that statement makes my chest tight, makes it harder to breathe.
"Do you?" He turns to look at me fully now, and there is something almost desperate in his eyes beneath the ice, something pleading. "Because my father will look for any weakness, any crack, any reason to dismiss you as unworthy. And if he finds one—"
"He won't," I interrupt, lifting my chin and meeting his gaze with as much confidence as I can muster. "I know how to play this game, Dante. I was trained for it."
For the Irish princess, a small voice in my head reminds me. You were trained to protect Erin in situations exactly like this. Not to be the one being evaluated.
But I shove that thought down deep and meet Dante's gaze without wavering.
Something in his expression softens fractionally, and he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair that has escaped my bun behind my ear. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
The driver opens my door, and Dante is immediately there, offering his hand to help me out.
I take it, and the moment my feet hit the gravel he tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, holding it there with his other hand like he is afraid I might bolt, like I am the only thing keeping him tethered.
We walk toward the entrance together, and I can feel eyes on us from every window, every shadow. Guards are stationed at intervals along the path, and they all watch us pass with expressions that give nothing away, faces carved from granite.
The front door opens before we reach it, and a woman appears—tall and elegant, probably in her late fifties, wearing a cream-colored dress and pearls that probably cost more than a car.
Her light hair is streaked with silver and pulled back in a sleek chignon, and when she sees Dante her entire face lights up with the kind of joy only mothers possess.
"Dante!" She descends the steps with her arms outstretched, and Dante releases me to embrace her, his entire posture changing—softening in a way I have never seen, the rigid lines of his body melting into something almost boyish.
"Mama," he murmurs into her hair. There is a rare, genuine warmth in his voice—an affection that makes my chest ache with a sudden, sharp envy.
She pulls back, cupping his face in her hands and studying him with that terrifyingly focused attention only mothers possess. "You look tired, Dante. Are they feeding you properly at that house, or is Gabriel making you live on espresso and spite?"
"I'm fine, Mama."
"You are never fine. You are always working too hard." She taps his cheekbone with a final, lingering caress before her gaze shifts to me. Her smile widens, transforming into something radiant and disarming. "And this must be the beautiful Rosalina."
"Rosalina, this is my mother, Alessandra Salvatore," Dante says. His hand finds the small of my back, his palm heavy and grounding as he guides me forward.
"It is an honor to meet you, Alessandra," I say. I start to reach out a hand, my mind reciting the formal protocols Seamus drilled into me. "I am so sorry we didn't have the chance to speak at the wedding. The chaos of the day—"
Alessandra ignores my hand entirely and pulls me into a lush, fragrant embrace. She smells of expensive silk and crushed lavender.
"Do not apologize, cara," she says into my ear, her voice a soothing velvet. "I do not blame you for the lack of an introduction. I blame the Irish 'honor guard' for keeping you on such a tight leash, and my son for his lack of patience."
She pulls back, keeping her hands on my shoulders. "The O'Connor men stood around you like a wall of stone all afternoon. And the moment they finally let you breathe, my son whisked you away before I could even find my coat. It was very romantic, I suppose, but his manners were atrocious."
I feel a startled laugh bubble up in my throat. "I suppose that is one way to describe it."
"Come," Alessandra says, linking her arm through mine as if we’ve been confidantes for years. "Let me introduce you to the rest of the family before you are thrown to the wolves."
She leads me into the heart of the compound.
It’s a temple of marble and crystal, museum-grade art hanging on the walls like silent witnesses.
In the formal sitting room, the air is thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and vintage wine.
Men in razor-sharp suits and women in elegant silk turn as one, their eyes evaluating me with the cold precision of jewelers looking for a flaw.
I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of O'Connor pride I have left.
"Everyone," Alessandra announces, her voice commanding the room without effort. "This is Rosalina, Dante's wife."