Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
In return, I tell him about my first art teacher who recognized my talent for detailed work, about my childhood dream of becoming a restoration artist, about the sea glass collection I've maintained since I was eight.
It's strange how normal it feels, this getting-to-know-you dinner with a man I married yesterday. Strange, and yet somehow right.
We move to the library after dinner, drawn to the comfort of the space we shared last night. Gabriele builds another fire, the familiar ritual soothing in its ordinariness. I curl into the same window seat, watching the play of firelight across his face as he works.
"Can I ask you something personal?" I say when he's settled in the armchair nearby, the fire crackling between us.
"You can ask," he replies. "I may not answer."
"Do you miss it? The danger, the power?"
He considers this with the same deliberate care he seems to bring to everything. "I miss the clarity," he says finally. "When you are famiglia, roles were defined. Enemies known. Objectives clear."
"And now?"
"Now everything is...complicated, and most times, unnecessarily so." His eyes meet mine across the space between us. "But then there are things which are simply harder to categorize. Or control."
"Like me?"
"Sì."
The honesty in his answer touches something in me, a place that recognizes truth when it's offered. Whatever Gabriele Bronzetti is—criminal, protector, my unlikely husband—he doesn't lie to me. That alone sets him apart from most people I've known.
"It's getting late," Gabriele says eventually, his voice low in the quiet room. "You should rest."
What if I don't want to?
His gaze narrows, and my breath catches. It's as if heard me even though I haven't said a word.
"What do you want, Kleah?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with possibilities neither of us has voiced. What do I want? Safety, yes. Understanding, certainty, a way forward through this maze I've found myself in.
But in this moment, with firelight playing across his face and wine warming my blood, I want something else entirely.
"I want—" I start, then stop, unsure how to articulate the confusing tangle of emotions inside me.
"Tell me," he says, his voice gentle but insistent.
"I want to not be afraid." The words come out in a rush. "Not of the people hunting me, not of this new life, not of... touch."
His expression shifts, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Your foster father," he says quietly.
I nod, throat tight. Of course he knows. He probably knows everything about me, every sordid detail of my past.
"He took something from you," Gabriele continues, his voice careful but not pitying. "Trust. Safety. The ability to be seen without being violated."
"Yes." The word is barely a whisper.
He rises from his chair, moving to kneel before me, close but not touching. "What he did was unforgivable."
"I know."
"And what Biancardi did to him in return was justice."
I look up at that, surprised.
"Your brother was furious when he realized he was too late from saving you. But he made sure that your foster father would not be able to do the same thing again."
"W-What exactly did Viktor do?" Please, please, please don't tell me he killed Richard. I just don't want that kind of death on my conscience.
"Your brother was surprisingly merciful—"
Oh, thank God.
"—and simply had his men gouge Richard's eyes out."
I think I'm going to be sick.
"You asked for honesty," he reminds me. "Always."
"Yes." I meet his gaze directly. "I did."
Something shifts in the air between us, a tension building that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with proximity, with intention, with the fire-lit intimacy of this moment.
"What else do you want, Kleah?" Gabriel is still kneeling before me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the subtle cologne he wears.
Fears cloud my mind. Urging me to take a step back and slow things down. But something in me—something new and unfamiliar and surprisingly insistent—wants more.
"I want to know what it feels like," I whisper. "To be touched by someone I choose. Someone I trust."
Heat flashes in his dark, dark eyes. "Are you asking what I think you're asking?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no qualification. Just certainty.
"We agreed," he reminds me, though I can see the restraint in every line of his body. "You said I couldn't touch you unless you asked."
"I'm asking."
For a moment, he simply watches me, searching my face for any sign of hesitation or fear. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifts his hand toward my face.
"May I?"
I nod, heart racing.
His fingers brush my cheek, so gently I might almost imagine it. A whisper of contact, warm and careful, tracing along my jaw, down to my neck, back up to my temple. Slowly, so slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don't.
Instead, I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as his thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, the word barely audible.