Page 29 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
She is not the Irish princess. She is not a political pawn being carefully maneuvered by Seamus. She is just a girl who loves her sister enough to sacrifice everything for her freedom. And that changes everything.
My mind races through the implications, through all the careful restraint I have been exercising since the moment this marriage was arranged, through all the rules and boundaries I built around how I was supposed to treat her, how we were supposed to treat her.
The delicate Irish princess. The symbol of alliance. The fragile thing that needed to be handled with kid gloves and diplomatic care.
Gone. All of it, just—gone.
What stands in front of me now is not some untouchable political asset. She is just Rosalina. Rosalina Carter. A woman who walked into this house with her eyes wide open and her guard up high, a woman who knows exactly how dangerous this world is because she has been trained to survive it, a woman who can take a hit and keep standing.
A woman we do not have to be careful with.
The realization sends something dark and heated spiraling through my bloodstream, settling low in my gut with the weight of inevitability.
I can be myself again. We can be ourselves again.
The boys and I can go back to doing what we normally do when a girl comes into our lives—sharing her, claiming her, taking her apart piece by piece and putting her back together in ways that leave her marked and ruined for anyone else.
The thought makes my pulse quicken, makes heat bloom across my skin.
I turn back to face her, and I know my expression has changed, know something predatory has slipped into my eyes because I see her react to it—spine stiffening, breathing picking up, pupils dilating even as her jaw sets in that stubborn line.
"Here's what you need to understand," I say, my voice dropping lower, taking on an edge that is part threat and part promise. "Now that we know you're not actually the Irish princess, things are going to change."
Her eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I say slowly, deliberately, "we don't have to treat you with kid gloves anymore."
I watch the words land, watch her process them, watch wariness bloom in her expression.
"The original plan," I continue, moving closer again, "was to handle you carefully. Respectfully. You were supposed to be Seamus O'Connor's precious daughter, the symbol of the alliance between our families, and that meant there were certain...courtesies we were supposed to extend. Certain boundaries we were supposed to respect."
I pause, letting the silence stretch, letting anticipation build.
"But you're not her," I finish softly. "Which means you don't need those courtesies. Do you?"
It is not really a question.
"What are you talking about?" she asks, but there is a tremor in her voice now, something that might be fear or excitement or both tangled together.
"I'm talking about the fact that the boys and I—" I gesture to Gabriel and Luca, "—we've always shared."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.
Rosalina goes very still.
"It's something we've done for years," I continue, watching her face carefully, cataloging every micro-expression. "When a girl comes into our lives, we don't pass her around like some kind of transaction. We share her. Together. All three of us."
Her breathing is audibly faster now, shallow and quick.
"We told Seamus we wouldn't do that with his daughter," I say, my voice dropping even lower, taking on a darker edge. "Out of respect for the alliance. Out of courtesy to the Irish. But you're not his daughter—not really. You're just the girl who was willing to take her place."
I lean in closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of my soap clinging to her skin from the shower, close enough that my breath ghosts across her cheek.
"So tell me, Rosa," I murmur. "Why should we extend you that same courtesy?"
Silence.
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out.
