Page 212 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet

His soul mate.

I swallowed thickly as Tore slowed the boat even further, calling to a man waiting on the docks to catch his rope. Before he tossed it, he reached over to squeeze my hand.

“Only a strong woman, a fearless one, could be withfiglio mia,and I could not have dreamed of one so perfect as you.”

“I’m not fearless,” I confessed thickly, watching blindly as he tossed the rope, and it was tied down to a metal prong. “I’m far from perfect.”

“Ah, but that is in the eyes of the beholder,” he argued, turning off the boat and turning to me with an extended hand. “And the man who believes you are his treasure is waiting for you now.”

I took his hand, feeling so moved I was shaken, the tectonic plates of my soul shifting and rearranging around his words.

Because they felt very much like the blessing I told him I didn’t need.

And I found, in him giving it, that I wanted it more than I could say.

I didn’t ask questions as I followed him onto the dock, through the busy pier, and into the streets of Sorrento. We walked with purpose, the only sign we were living on borrowed time.

I had no doubt Rocco was looking for us and that if we stayed in the vicinity of his territory too long, he would hunt us down.

The sun was high in the sky, pale and nebulous behind thin clouds as we passed into the narrow, steep streets leading up the hills of the city.

Ten minutes later, Tore stopped at the end of the street across from a tiny piazza.

Across from us stood a small white chapel.

It was simple, unadorned but for the cross over the plain wood door.

Tore led us to the entrance.

“Tore…” I whispered because it was getting hard to breathe.

He didn’t say anything as he pushed open the doors to the cool interior and pulled me inside. The space smelled of old paper and myrrh. It was basic for an Italian church, no gilt paint or carefully created murals, no glossy mahogany pews, only old, scarred wooden rows and basic white walls carved into the requisite arcs. It was beautiful, somehow pure and elegant.

And it was empty.

I frowned around the vacant space, but Tore was already dragging me into a side room.

“Get dressed and come back into the chapel,” he ordered before taking both my hands in his and kissing each cheek. His countenance was so warm, I could feel the heat of his love coming off his skin in waves. “Che la vostra vita insieme sia come il buon vino.”

May your life together be like fine Italian wine.

It was an old, cheesy blessing fathers often imparted at weddings in our country.

I blinked at him as he stepped away and closed the door behind him.

On the small wooden table beside the votive candles lay a box.

Valentinowas embossed in gold on the top.

My heart stopped, then restarted with an abrupt bang that ached in my ribs.

With trembling fingers, I notched my fingernails under the lid and lifted.

Inside lay snowy white silk carefully folded in tissue paper and a note written on plain card stock.

Wear this tonight.

Xoxo,