Page 8

I hear her footsteps before she comes into view in the mirror. Our eyes connect, and she smiles, looking me up and down. I press my sweaty palms onto the skirt of my dress, nervous.

“How do I look, Mamá?”

“You look beautiful, cara,” my mother gushes from the door of my closet. She is dressed in a black dress, a sign that she is still in mourning. “Ready?”

No.

“Yes,” I push down whatever reservations I have. I straighten my back and roll my shoulders. “Are they here?”

She nods and holds her hand out to me. “They’re in the tea room with your father. They’ve been here for some time, but I wanted to give you some space to yourself.”

Her words ease me a little.

“Okay.” I walk over to my mother and place my hand in hers. There is a sense of unity between us. We are both women forced to conform to the pressures of our society. My mother, of course, is more inclined to do it—whereas with me, it is more of a forced disposition.

“Mamá?” My voice is loud against the thickness of the silence.

She lifts her face; her caramel eyes meet mine through the glass. “Si, amore?”

“Do you think he will like me? Do you think we will find love like you and Papá?”

It seems silly that one would hope for love in an arrangement like this, but I can’t help it. As a little girl, I dreamed of the grand kind of love I read about in novels and watched on the big screen.

“Of course he will like you, amore. You aren’t marrying a stranger.”

The softness in her tone does little to ease the tension that still riddles my heart.

We walk out of my room, hand in hand, as we head down the stairs.

With each step I take, I feel the world closing in on me. My chest heaves up and down, trying to pull in as much air as possible to stay calm. We make it into the front foyer, and I can already hear their voices echoing through the space.

This is it. I pat my free hand against the skirt of my dress and brace myself for what’s to come. My mother and I walk hand in hand until finally, we come to a halt in the archway of the tea room. The scent of expensive cologne and alcohol wafts into my nostrils.

I clutch my mother’s hand for dear life. She is the only thing grounding me. We stand in the archway, staring at the three men in the tea room.

“Mi amor,” my mother calls out to my father. “We’re here.”

My father’s hazel eyes meet mine, and I catch the slight glint of pride radiating from his gaze. My eyes shift to Matteo, who sits in the chair beside him. His striking steel eyes watch me with great intensity. That gaze of his—it will always pierce right through me. My breath hitches—only for a moment—before I steady myself.

“Benvenuto, Signor Davacalli.” I even go so far as to drop my gaze to the floor as a show of respect to my elders. “It’s good to see you again.”

When I lift my eyes, there’s a small hint of a smile on my father’s lips. Of course, he’s proud. I’m being the obedient little Italian girl he raised me to be—the perfect bride for a family like the Davacallis.

“Ciao, Maria.” Matteo’s thick voice fills the room. He turns his head toward his son. “Daniele, you know Maria, of course.”

Finally, my eyes move to the man standing by the window of the tea room. He’s dressed in form-fitting dress pants and a white button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a sleeve tattoo beneath.

Our eyes meet, and my heart thunders in the center of my chest. I blink. My hazel eyes lock with his warm caramel ones. I haven’t looked into those eyes in over a decade. The innocence that once shone so brightly within them is now gone. I can see the years have turned him into a man.

His brown hair is styled to perfection. His body stands a solid six feet off the ground, his head held high like he’s already wearing his crown.

The mafia prince. In all his glory and wonder. The man many women in our world want to bed—and many men want to kill.

“Ciao, Maria. It’s been a long time.” His lips curl into a charming smile.

“Ciao, Daniele,” I respond.

The time apart hasn’t dulled him—it’s refined him. My ten-year-old self would be screaming that her childhood crush turned out to be sex on legs. Okay—at least the attraction is there. Now, we just take the next steps, day by day.