Page 38 of Modern Romance December 2025 5-8

Mimi laid a hand on Renzo’s arm as she felt the tension radiating from him. “It’s fine,” she said softly, even though her heart pounded. “I did agree to meet your friends. There are more than I expected here, that’s all.”

His head snapped toward her, his jaw tight. “I will not expose you to unnecessary stress.”

“I can’t hide forever, Renzo,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt. “Plus, just because I’m averse to drama doesn’t mean I’m scared of it,” she said, loud enough for Chiara to hear.

The woman raised a brow, much like her brother did. The gesture was now so familiar to Mimi that the tension fled her muscles. “Let me make my own impression, Renzo. I need to do this.” Pia’s shadow loomed large enough without her cowering away from Renzo’s family.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, the anger in his eyes warring with something softer. Finally, he gave a tight nod, though his hand slipped to her waist, pulling her closer as if shielding her from the room.

God, how her insides melted at the possessive, protective gesture. No one had ever quite looked out for her like this man did, and Mimi found new meaning in the vows they had both taken in front of these very people.

Chiara’s eyes flicked to her brother’s arm, her smile tightening. “Come now, don’t let us keep you from the fun. Everyone’s eager to meet the woman who’s managed to drag Renzo to the altar.”

“You have made a grave mistake, Chiara. Coming for me is one thing. Coming for Mimi…” He shook his head.

A flash of fear danced in Chiara’s sparkling eyes before her mouth pursed. “You talk as if you would choose her over us, Renzo.”

“It’s not even a choice, because she has never embarrassed me. You have that honor, Chiara. I have repeatedly warned you that Mimi’s off limits.”

“Is she that fragile then?”

“If you don’t respect my wife, then maybe I can wash my hands of clearing your husband’s business debts,sì?”

CHAPTER NINE

By the timethey returned to the penthouse, Renzo’s mood grew darker. With a softly whispered “Need a shower,” Mimi disappeared into the bathroom the moment they had stepped inside.

He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to be around him.

His entire family, including his various cousins and their wives, had been out in droves, taking their cue from Chiara, ready and raring to not only judge Mimi but find her wanting. Even the polite ones. Their nod to her had been as the woman who gave birth to the new DiCarlo heir.

In contrast, his wife had been the model of elegance and grace. Never rising to the bait, smiling at a rude, intrusive comment about her pregnancy and even managing a laugh when one of his younger cousins—motivated by temperament and not intention—had asked her about how she leashed Renzo.

His father had curled his upper lip when she’d asked Massimo if he was okay. As if she was some stranger showing greedy curiosity about their family.

Massimo, at least, had the sense to ask her about one of her documentaries.

Mama, realizing how furious Renzo was, had showed her kindness by cutting through rude conversations, asking about Luca and her parents, and offering to babysit whenever they wanted alone time.

Forget alone time with him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mimi wanted to run away from the lot of them tomorrow morning.

The beautiful skyline flashed in front of his eyes, on and off, as he walked the living room like a caged animal. A wounded one at that.

How dare his sister invite Rosa, of all women? As if Renzo were still a bachelor. As if it didn’t rile him up no end to see the woman who’d discarded him years ago without second glance.

What the hell had his sister thought to achieve?

He had done so much for them—for Papa and Chiara and Massimo—and never complained about it. He had had to grow up faster than any of them, make hard decisions for their family, take on the mantle of the family finances.

He had always been so proud of being the one who saved his family, who restored the respect and might to the DiCarlo name again. Somewhere along the line, it had become his identity, his ego. And yet suddenly, it felt too heavy to carry—built of others’ expectations of him, of his own ambition and achievements—but also empty.

As if he had built his castle on sinking sand.

Cristo, but he missed his older brother like a hole in his chest. Santo hadn’t wanted anything to do with the flaming hot mess that had been the family’s company or the responsibility of bringing their father to heel. Or to deal with their younger siblings’ privileged problems.

But he had been a steady, calming support behind Renzo as he took on the task of fixing the family’s finances. His marriage to Pia had frustrated Renzo no end, but his brother had loved her. Had been completely loyal to her.

Had that been at the root of his resentment toward her too? That Pia had constantly needed Santo, that she took him away from Renzo and deprived him of the little he had of his brother?