Page 443 of Rosetti Family New York

The moment stretches around us, warm and complete and real. No more games, no more walls, no more pretending this is anything other than what it is.

"You're stuck with us now," I tell Isabella, spinning the emerald ring on her finger. "The whole crazy family."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she says, and means it.

I pull her close then, unable to resist, and kiss her properly right there in front of everyone. Not claiming or possessing, just celebrating. Pure joy.

Leo groans dramatically. "Get a room."

"We have several," I point out without breaking the kiss.

Carmela throws a piece of toast at my head. "Behave! And yes, you have several rooms, but we're eating breakfast here like civilized people." She turns to Isabella with sparkling eyes. "Don't let him corrupt you too much. Some of us still have standards."

"I'll do my best," Isabella promises, laughing.

When we break apart, Isabella is laughing, the ring catching the light as she touches my face. Around us, the family continues their good-natured ribbing, planning our future with the kind of loving chaos only family can provide.

This is home. This chaos, this love, this woman in my arms who chose to build a life with all of us.

The playboy is dead. Long live the man who learned that the best conquest is the one who conquers you right back.

30

Isabella

The silk nightgown pools around my feet as I step onto the marble balcony, bare toes curling against the cool stone. Italian flows from Matteo's voice below, low and dangerous and completely fluent as he paces the terrace with his phone pressed to his ear.

Business. Even at seven in the morning.

I lean against the railing, morning light warming my shoulders where the thin straps leave them exposed. It's been three months since the family breakfast, since I stopped pretending this wasn't forever, and I still feel amazed by the simple luxury of belonging somewhere. Of belonging to someone who treats me like a queen instead of a possession.

The coffee waiting on the small balcony table is perfect. Still steaming, with exactly the right amount of cream. He must have brought it up before his call, careful and thoughtful in the way that still surprises me.

I sit in the cushioned chair, sipping the espresso while listening to his voice drift up from below. He's speaking to someone about security measures for the docks, somethingabout rotating schedules and background checks. All of it in that lethal Italian that makes my pulse quicken.

His voice has become home to me.

Below me on the terrace, Matteo stands with his back to the mansion, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand braced against the stone railing. He's wearing black slacks and nothing else, muscles shifting under tanned skin as he gestures. Auburn hair still messy from sleep and my fingers.

"No exceptions," he says into the phone, voice carrying that edge that means someone is about to have a very bad day. "Anyone who approaches the warehouse gets vetted twice. I don't care if they're carrying papal authority."

I lean against the doorframe, watching him work. Six months ago, I would have been terrified by this conversation. Now I understand what I'm seeing. A man protecting his family, his business, his world. Protecting me.

The possessive satisfaction that thought brings would have horrified the woman I used to be.

He turns, catches sight of me on the balcony above, and whatever he was about to say dies on his lips. His gray eyes rake over me in the silk nightgown, pupils dilating slightly. The phone call becomes secondary to the heat building between us.

"Handle it," he says curtly into the phone, then hangs up without waiting for a response. He disappears from view, and moments later I hear his footsteps on the stairs leading to our bedroom.

When he emerges onto the balcony, he crosses to me in three strides, hands settling on my waist, fingers skimming the silk at my hips.

He kisses me slow and deep, tasting like espresso and promise. When he pulls back, his eyes are soft in a way they never are with anyone else.

"Sleep well?" he murmurs against my lips.

"No nightmares." The words come easily now. Three months of peaceful sleep, three months of waking up safe in his arms. "What time is the meeting?"

"Ten." His thumb traces circles on my hipbone, casual and possessive. "Plenty of time."