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)
But instead everything went right.
Thank You.
It's my first time to pray. But I know it won't be the last.
Epilogue
KLEAH
ANOTHER MONTH HAS PASSED. And life can't get any better.
The terracotta walls of our Sicilian villa have become home in ways I never anticipated when I first agreed to marry Gabriele. My studio overlooks the Mediterranean, light pouring through arched windows as I create my seals. My work has evolved since our lives stabilized—custom pieces for a carefully vetted clientele, designs that blend traditional artisanship with symbolism drawn from our shared journey.
My husband is still the sweetest man there is, though of course I know better than to say this to his face. He's famiglia, after all. Appearances must be kept and all that. His reputation remains fearsome in certain circles, a protection we both know serves us well, even as he shows me sides of himself no one else is permitted to see.
And speaking of famiglia...
My stomach ties itself in knots as his limo cruises to a stop in front of the hotel. The sleek black vehicle purrs against the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the ornate façade of Milan's most exclusive luxury hotel. Gabriele's security team moves with practiced efficiency, taking positions that appear casual but provide perfect coverage of every potential approach.
We're about to meet my half-sister and her husband, who once belonged to the same world that gave birth to my husband and Viktor. I'm excited and hopeful. But I'm also anxious and fearful. I'm really hoping we'll get along, but...
My fingers worry the edge of my silk blouse, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. Gabriele's hand covers mine, stilling the nervous movement, his touch warm and grounding.
"I feel like I'm about to throw up," I confess to him as we walk past the hotel's front doors. The marble lobby stretches before us, opulent yet understated in that way only true old wealth can achieve. "What if she doesn't like me? What if—"
"Stop talking nonsense."
My husband's patient tone makes me smile despite my nervousness.
Riiiight.
The words sound harsh, but I hear what lies beneath them. I've forgotten how adorably blind Gabriele is where I'm concerned. He believes wholeheartedly I'm perfect and assumes everyone thinks so, too.
It's both ridiculous and comforting, this unwavering faith in me. The man who questions every scenario, who plots contingencies for contingencies, who calculates risk with cold precision—this same man has a blind spot exactly my size and shape.
We step inside the elevator, Gabriele's hand at the small of my back, a touch both possessive and supportive. The doors slide closed with a soft hush, surrounding us with polished wood and beveled mirrors. My reflection shows a woman I'm still getting used to—designer clothes, subtle security jewelry (tracking devices disguised as elegant accessories), the quiet confidence that comes from standing beside one of the most dangerous men in Europe.
But my eyes still betray me—wide with anxiety, darting toward the floor indicator as we ascend toward the penthouse restaurant where my half-sister waits.
"You're fidgeting," my husband observes with a frown.
Oops.
My fingers have found the pendant at my throat—the key he gave me months ago, now transformed into a custom setting that maintains its function while disguising its significance. A nervous habit I've developed, touching this physical reminder of the moment trust truly formed between us.
"I'm just really, really nervous." I look at him helplessly, seeing my own reflection multiplied in his dark eyes. "What do I do? I don't want to make the wrong impression."
Gabriele studies me for a moment, expression softening in that way reserved only for me, when no one else is watching. When he can allow the façade of cold calculation to slip, revealing the man beneath the carefully constructed exterior.
"What you need is a distraction."
His voice drops lower, a register that sends immediate heat spreading through me despite months of marriage, despite the intimacy we've shared almost daily since establishing our life together.
"From my nervousness?"
"Sì."
The single syllable carries layers of promise, of intent that makes my pulse quicken despite the wholly inappropriate timing.
Uh oh.
The elevator jerks to a stop when my husband hits the red button. The emergency stop. In a luxury hotel elevator. On our way to meet my sister and her husband.
I'm dead.
I start talking in a rush, "You know what? I actually think I'm okay—"
My husband is on his knees.
Oh no.
His hands slide beneath my skirt, fingertips tracing patterns against the sensitive skin of my thighs. The contrast is exquisite—his calloused hands, capable of such violence, now touching me with exquisite gentleness. His eyes never leave mine as he pushes the fabric higher, a question and a command simultaneously.
And now he's under my skirt.
Oh dear.
I should protest. Should remind him of the security cameras likely recording our every move. Should point out that we're expected at an important meeting, that this is hardly the time or place for such activities.