Page 59 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"Really." He pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing a strand of hair from my face that has escaped from my now-ruined bun. "You made quite the impression, Flower. On everyone."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good," he says firmly, emphatically. "Definitely good."
The front door opens behind us, and we both turn to see Alessandra standing in the doorway, backlit by the warm light from inside. Her expression is soft, understanding, and when she looks at us there is something that might be approval in her eyes.
"Go," she says quietly. "Before he comes out here."
Dante nods, taking my hand again, and we descend the steps together toward the waiting car.
But before we get in, he turns back to his mother. "Mama?—"
"I know, caro," she says, and there is pride in her voice. "I know. Now go. Take your brave wife home."
Dante helps me into the car, and as we pull away from the compound, I look back to see Alessandra still standing in the doorway, watching us leave with a small smile on her face.
"Drive," Dante tells the driver, his voice still rough with emotion, and then he pulls me against his side, his arm around my shoulders, holding me close as we leave the Salvatore estate behind.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, just breathing, just processing what happened, and then Dante speaks again, his voice soft in the darkness of the car.
"No one has ever defended me like that," he says. "Not my mother, not Gabriel, not Luca. No one. They love me, but they have never stood up to him for me."
"Maybe they were afraid," I say quietly.
"Maybe. But you were not." He turns to look at me, and in the passing streetlights I can see his face, see the wonder and gratitude still written across it. "You were not afraid of him at all."
"I was terrified," I admit.
"But you did it anyway." He kisses the top of my head. "That is what makes you brave, Flower. Not the absence of fear, but doing what is right despite it."
I curl into his side, feeling the warmth of his body, the solid strength of him, and for the first time since this whole insane situation began, I think maybe—just maybe—this might actually work out.
13
DANTE
I am watchingher brush her teeth.
It is such a mundane thing, such an ordinary domestic moment, and yet I cannot look away. Rosalina is standing at the bathroom sink in one of my t-shirts—she has been stealing them with alarming frequency, not that I mind—the hem hitting her mid-thigh, her golden bronze hair pulled up in a messy knot at the crown of her head. She is humming something under her breath, some tune I do not recognize, and there is toothpaste foam at the corner of her mouth that she wipes away with the back of her hand.
She catches my eye in the mirror and raises an eyebrow, her mouth full of toothpaste. "What?"
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, just watching her. "Nothing."
She spits into the sink, rinses, wipes her mouth with the towel. "You are staring at me."
"I know."
"It’s creepy." But she is smiling when she says it, that small, knowing smile that does things to my chest I am not ready to examine.
"I am admiring my wife," I counter, pushing off the doorframe and moving into the bathroom. The space is small enough that when I step behind her, we are pressed close together, my chest to her back, my hands settling on her hips. "Is that a crime?"
"Depends on what you are thinking while you do it." She meets my eyes in the mirror, and I can see the flush creeping up her neck, the way her breathing has changed.
What am I thinking?
I am thinking about tonight. About watching her sit at my father's table in that modest navy dress with her hair pulled back and her spine perfectly straight, playing the part of the proper Italian wife with such flawless precision that even Giovanni could not find fault. About the way she charmed my mother in under five minutes, made my aunts laugh, deflected my uncle's probing questions with graceful ease.
