13. Gia

Iwake up in the morning to a cold, empty bed. Salvatore is already gone for the day. In the brief amount of time I've shared a room with him, I've noticed a few small things that can only be learned by sharing private space with someone else—that he leaves his watch at the side of the bed, that he hangs his suit for the next day on the front of the wardrobe, his tie coiled neatly on the dresser next to it and his shoes lined up.

All of those items are gone, leaving only the book he was reading last night and his reading glasses atop it, sitting next to the lamp on the bedside table.

I sit up, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. I have a faint headache, undoubtedly from the amount of wine I drank last night. It made me foggy and sleepy on the ride home, and I passed out almost as soon as I got undressed and slid into bed.

Despite the assumptions I'd made about Salvatore's plans for the night when he sent me the beautiful dress, he didn't touch me. Didn't even try. He went into the bathroom and stayed there while I changed into a pair of modest sleep shorts and a tank top, and reemerged in those soft black pants and a t-shirt, as if to prevent any thoughts I might have about his bare chest.

Which is, as I recall, an uncomfortably nice chest.

I shake my head, clearing it. My innocence—or what remains of it, anyway—is still intact, and I don't know how to feel about it. I don't know whether I feel relieved that he hasn't finished the job, hopeful that it will mean Pyotr might still retrieve me, or disappointed that I'm still being denied the most basic part of a marriage—both the potential pleasures of the marriage bed, and the possibility of children.

And, possibly a little offended that he seems to so easily be able to stifle any desire for me, able to sleep next to me without giving in to the urge to touch me when he hasn't even really had me yet.

Is he, though? A memory of yesterday morning flickers back into my mind, of those soft black pants hanging off Salvatore's sharp hipbones as he gripped the edge of the counter with one hand, his other?—

I shake my head again, hard. I am not going to sit here fantasizing about this man. Especially after last night, when he nearly drew me in, almost made me let down my walls, only to remind me of the absolute control he has over me.

A knock comes at the door. "Gia?" Leah's voice filters in from the other side. "May I come in?"

"Sure." I rub at my face as the doors open, and she walks in, balancing a tray that she sets down on the dresser. There's a covered plate on it, as well as a steaming cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice.

"Don Morelli has already left for the day, so I brought your breakfast up. Do you need anything else?"

I shake my head. "No. Thank you."

When she leaves, I reach for my phone. I sent messages to Angelica, Cristina, and Rosaria last night, to see if they'd want to meet me to shop today. I wondered if they'd be able to on such short notice, especially Angelica, who is married and has her own household to run. But there are texts from all of them, excitedly agreeing to meet me at a coffee shop downtown so that we can come up with a plan of action for the day.

I send a group message, letting them know I'll be there in a few hours, and slide out of bed. I feel a flush of unexpected excitement at the idea of a day of relative freedom—I'll be bogged down with security, true, but at least I'll be away from the estate and with my friends. It feels like a breath of fresh air after how things have been since the wedding.

The wedding.I wince, remembering the fiasco at the altar, the expressions on their faces. I have no idea what they thought then or have thought since. I've been with Salvatore every minute, my phone only returned last night so I could get in touch with them. I still have it, presumably because there's nothing I could really do with it to get myself in trouble. It's not as if I have Pyotr's phone number. Every meeting, every conversation we ever had was pre-arranged by our fathers, set up in a place where we could be watched. We never had a private word with each other.

I push thoughts of Pyotr out of my head, sliding out of bed and looking at the tray Leah left for me. There are scrambled eggs and a homemade cherry-filled croissant under the cover, and I reach for the pastry, taking a bite of it and a sip of the coffee. The room feels very quiet this morning, waking up alone, and I try to imagine living here for the rest of my life.

It doesn't feel like home. It feels like I'm a guest in someone else's room. Salvatore told me I could redecorate—ostensibly because he understood I'd feel this way and for some reason gives a shit—but I don't know what I'd want to do with it. I don't know what I could do to make this place feel like home.

I take another nibble of the pastry and another sip of coffee before I go and get into the shower, putting my hair up atop my head. Afterward, I dry off and spray a little dry shampoo and texture spray through my hair, running my fingers through it, and then go to get dressed. Jeans, a blue silk camisole, a thin grey cashmere cardigan for warmth against the chill outside, and a pair of high-heeled black ankle boots. I hesitate next to my vanity, and then reach for the diamond and onyx studs and bracelet that Salvatore sent me yesterday.

If I really want to be petty, I should never wear them again. I should banish them to a corner of my jewelry box and never look at them, forget they even exist, as if they mean nothing to me.

And they don't, I tell myself as I slip them into my ears, clasping the bracelet. They're just pretty, and I like pretty things. There's nothing deeper to it.

With that thought firmly in my head, I finish my breakfast, and go down to find Salvatore's driver.

—

By the time we're on our way, I'm thoroughly irritated. Heavy security, it seems, means two SUVs of private bodyguards following the town car I'm in, and one in the passenger's seat next to my driver. Unsurprisingly, Salvatore's number is in my phone, and I fire off a message as soon as I'm in the car, annoyance flooding me.

I don't need a private army to go shopping.

This is ridiculous. Even my friends, who are used to this life, will find it ridiculous. Insane, even. They always have one or two bodyguards following them when they go anywhere, but Salvatore has practically sent a company of mercenaries with me, like I'm some princess in danger of assassination.

Of course, that's not far from what he believes.

My phone buzzes, and I look at it, almost surprised he bothered to respond at all.

If you want to leave the house, Gia, this is how you do it. Or I could have a personal shopper deliver items for you to look at?

I resist the urge to throw my phone across the car. He would give me an order, and then follow it up with a ridiculous flex to remind me of how much wealth and power he has, that he can provide anything I require without my lifting a finger—even if I want to.

It's fine,I text back angrily. I guess this is just my life now.

There's no response—not that I expected one. I let out a sharp sigh, craning my neck to see the SUVs following us. It's not just irritating, it's embarrassing. Proof of Salvatore's obsession, and his insane certainty that my life is in mortal danger.

What if it is? I remember the sound of gunshots in the hallway of the hotel, in my room as I'd crouched in the bathroom, more afraid than I've ever been in my life. I believed it was Pyotr, coming for me. But what if it wasn't?

The possibility flickers through my head again that Salvatore is right. That he has a reason to be so overprotective. But I can't let myself believe it.

I'm not sure I can handle that particular truth.

Angelica, Rosaria, and Cristina are all at the coffee shop when I walk in. The bodyguard who was in the car with me sticks close to my side, taking a seat at the table nearest them. I see four other men with similar builds and attitudes nearby—presumably my friends' security. The two teams that followed me over are no doubt spread out outside the building, making sure there's no one watching us, or waiting for us to head outside.

"Gia!" Rosaria is up first, heading straight for me to give me a hug. "We missed you."

"It's only been a few days." I laugh weakly.

"We don't normally go that long without hearing from you." Angelica chews on her lip. "We were worried. My husband?—"

"Just give me a minute, and I'll explain. I'm going to get coffee."

I return a few minutes later with a raspberry mocha, courtesy of the heavy black credit card that Salvatore left next to my phone this morning. I have no doubt that it doesn't have a limit, and I plan to exercise that to the fullest today.

"What happened?" Angelica looks at me, her pretty brow creased as she taps her fingers against the side of her mug of tea. "All of that was—" She bites her lip again, glancing at the other two girls. "I heard my husband on the phone that night. I don't know who he was talking to. One of the other dons, I assume. They're concerned about Salvatore's state of mind, after that."

"What do you mean?" I ask, a little defensively. I'm not sure why, but the idea of the other dons talking about Salvatore behind his back upsets me. It shouldn't—I'm furious with Salvatore. He ruined my wedding and stole me. As far as I can tell, he gave in to selfish desires and betrayed my father. But—it's different if the other dons are talking about it. If they decide he's unfit?—

"Well—" Angelica chews on her lip, and I can't help thinking that if she doesn't stop, it's going to bleed and ruin her lipstick. "My husband wouldn't tell me everything. He said it's not really for me to worry about. But he said that Salvatore helped broker that deal with the Russians."

"Of course he did. He was my father's right hand."

"Right." Angelica frowns. "So why would he destroy a deal he helped broker? It doesn't make sense to them."

"He says he thinks my father was wrong to make the deal. That the Bratva would have hurt me and that I would have been in danger with Pyotr." I wince as I say it. Saying it aloud feels like a betrayal of everything I thought Pyotr and I shared, of the future we planned together. I wait for my friends to exclaim that Salvatore is crazy, that my marriage was arranged for a reason, that he was wrong to step in.

But instead, Angelica and the other two exchange another look.

"What?" I press my lips together. "Just say it."

Rosaria lets out a slow breath. "We're all afraid of the Russians. You hear things—" She takes a nervous sip of her coffee, and the cup clatters a little when she sets it back down. "They're dangerous."

"So are we. Or the mafia, anyway," I point out. "But that doesn't stop you from marrying a mafia son."

"Marrying one of them is marrying one of us, though. You just said it," Rosaria points out. "Those marriages might not be for love, but we come from the same backgrounds. If one of us marries a son of a mafia family, we understand each other. What could you possibly have had in common with Pyotr?"

She doesn't say what she's really asking, but I can hear it. Why would he want to marry you? It makes me bristle. I know she doesn't mean to hurt me, but it does.

"He wanted me. He was—I thought he was falling in love with me." My voice cracks when I say it despite my best efforts not to, and Cristina automatically puts her hand over mine.

"I think what Rosaria means is that—what was in it for the Bratva? Not just Pyotr. But this was a treaty, you said. An arrangement for more than just what you and Pyotr wanted."

"I mean—" I bite my lip, trying to think. I've never really thought that hard about it. My father arranged the meeting, and I wanted Pyotr. My father wanted to give me what would make me happy. It was always as simple as that in my head. The part of it that was an arrangement took a backseat in my head. I only really started to consider what it meant when it became something to fling in Salvatore's face—first as a means to keep him from postponing the wedding, and then to remind him of his betrayal. "It was about what we wanted. My father wanted me to be happy with the man I married. He loved my mother, and he wanted a chance for that for me, too. So he introduced me to Pyotr, thinking we'd be a good match. And when I genuinely liked him, he let us continue courting. And I fell for him." I look down at my cooling latte. "But I've talked about all of this before."

"Right." Rosaria looks at Angelica, and back at me, and I have the distinct feeling that just like the dons have been talking about Salvatore since then, they've been talking about me. I don't like it. "That's what was in it for you. For your father, even, if his primary concern was your happiness." There's the tiniest trace of bitterness in her voice—I know her father has been working on arranging a match for her, and there hasn't been any concern for whether or not she likes the men he's been considering. "But what was in it for the Bratva? Not Pyotr, but his father? And the rest of them?"

"An end to all the fighting." The answer comes automatically, but it doesn't relax the expressions on Angelica or Rosaria's faces. Even Cristina lets out a sigh, as if it doesn't make sense to her.

"It's not like we're experts," Angelica says slowly. "But I've never heard my father or husband or anyone at all even hint that the Bratva have ever really wanted peace. As long as I've known, they live for bloodshed. They love violence. Why would they want to broker an end to it?"

"My father always says they're animals." Rosaria shudders. "I didn't want to ruin your happiness, Gia, but I was so worried for you, when you told me you were marrying Pyotr. I couldn't imagine how it would turn out well."

I feel myself getting tense. This isn't how I expected the conversation to go. I thought they would all be horrified at what Salvatore did, hopeful that Pyotr would save me, as invested in the future of my seemingly doomed romance as I have been.

But they seem to see Pyotr and the Bratva as the enemy as much as Salvatore does.

"I'm not saying what Salvatore did was right." Angelica takes another sip of her coffee. "I was shocked. We all were. Like I said, I think the dons are discussing options if this kind of—erratic behavior continues. After all, he only became don because your father didn't leave an heir." She says it matter-of-factly, but once again, I feel a flicker of defensiveness on Salvatore's behalf.

"He was always loyal to my father," I remind her. "Of course, he would inherit, since my father gave my hand to Pyotr and I didn't have a brother."

"I think that's part of it," Cristina says. "I hear things, too—my father talking over dinner and such. Everyone always believed your father would marry you into another Italian family, to pass the title on that way. Not give it to his right hand, and send you to the Bratva." She pauses. "I think they see it as a strange shift in loyalty on his part. It doesn't seem like his decision to make that treaty was discussed outside his own close circle. But again—" She shrugs. "I don't know everything. Or much about it at all, really. And you say it was because he wanted to make you happy."

"He did," I say softly. "And look what happened."

"What has happened?" Angelica frowns. "Salvatore threw the Bratva out and took Pyotr's place at the altar, said the vows—we all saw that. But then—the reception was canceled. We all went home. And none of us heard from you after that. We were all genuinely worried."

I'm not sure what to say. Suddenly, I don't know how much I want to tell them. If we were having coffee a few days after my wedding night with Pyotr, I know I'd be excitedly gossiping with them about how it had gone, if it had met my expectations, what exciting new things I'd discovered, and how passionately he'd made love to me. Angelica and I would be comparing notes, and Rosaria and Cristina would be hanging on to our every word, imagining—or dreading—their own wedding nights, but still curious.

But now…

I don't know if I want to tell them about my confusing wedding night, about the pleasure Salvatore gave me, only to abruptly stop as soon as he saw blood on the sheets. I can feel the heat start to crawl up my neck at the thought of telling them about what happened in the exercise room. It feels shameful, wrong somehow, to admit how Salvatore has made me come in the same conversation where I've talked about how much I wanted to marry Pyotr. It feels confusing to admit that even though I hate him nearly all of the time, sometimes I desire him, too. That I both want him to take my virginity, and not, all at the same time.

That the stern, forbidding man who took over as my guardian isn't the same as the muscled, virile man who came to my bed on my wedding night.

I'm not sure that I want to admit that I'm still technically a virgin, days after my wedding, or to explain the complicated situation. But as I look up and see the curious looks on all three of my friends' faces, I don't know if I'm going to get that option.

"I didn't think you'd be this shy about it!" Rosaria exclaims. "After all that time you spent flirting with Pyotr and hoping to sneak kisses on your dates. I thought you'd want to share all the details."

Angelica is looking at me more closely. "He didn't hurt you, did he?" She frowns, her eyes narrowing. I see a glimmer of something sympathetic mingled with the concern on her face, and I remember her recollection of her wedding night. It didn't sound pleasant, that's for sure.

"No." I shake my head. "He didn't hurt me."

"But it wasn't good?" Cristina clicks her tongue sympathetically. "He was so passionate about it at the altar, I thought maybe it would be."

"He—" I lick my lips, feeling embarrassed. I hadn't thought about how this part would feel, confessing this to my friends. "We haven't—yet."

Another look, exchanged among the three of them. I feel my cheeks heat. "He says he didn't marry me because he wants me like—that. He says he did it to protect me from the Bratva, and nothing more."

"So what happened on your wedding night?" Angelica's frown deepens. "He can say he's protecting you all he likes, but if there was no proof of consummation, then?—"

Her voice is low, but I glance quickly around the coffee shop, hoping that no one else is listening in. "He was—getting me ready. And saw blood, and said that was all we needed. And then he left."

"And he hasn't touched you since?" Rosaria's voice rises sharply, surprised, and I glare at her.

"Don't shout about it," I hiss, and she winces.

"Sorry."

"No, he hasn't." It's technically a lie—Salvatore has definitely touched me since our wedding night. But not the way Rosaria means.

"But we're shopping for your honeymoon today." There's an ever-present note of optimism in Cristina's voice. "So if he hasn't yet, then we'll just have to find things for you to take with you to tempt him."

"What if I don't want to?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't want to marry him. I wanted to marry Pyotr." I can hear the note of petulance in my voice, but surely, if anyone can understand being put in a position of being pushed into an unwanted marriage, it's my three friends. That particular Damoclean sword is hanging over Cristina and Rosaria both. It's already happened to Angelica. "Maybe I want him to stay out of my bed."

Angelica bites her lip again. "I know it's difficult," she says finally. "But you might be better off with the marriage consummated. It can't be argued against, then. You'll be safer. There's no risk of anyone finding out the truth."

"If she doesn't want him, though—" Rosaria ventures, and I feel my face flush deeper. I don't want to admit that sometimes I do want him. That I'm not as certain of all my feelings as I'd like for them to think.

"I think it's romantic," Cristina says suddenly, and everyone—including me—looks in her direction.

Her expression turns defensive. "What? He thought you were in danger and saved you. He risked a lot to interrupt that wedding. It was daring and romantic and well—" She presses her lips together, looking a little sheepish. "He's handsome. Come on, you all can't argue with me that he is."

I could argue, but I have a feeling it would fall flat. Because the truth is that Salvatore is gorgeous. I can't think of many women in the world who could look at him and not want him. He's the definition of rugged, brutal masculinity, a man unafraid to get his hands dirty, but also able to talk his way out of a situation. And I don't want to admit it, but seeing the way Cristina's eyes widen and hearing her voice soften when she talks about my husband that way makes me feel a flicker of jealousy.

My husband.I've never thought of Salvatore that way before with anything but disdain. Maybe he is getting to me. Maybe all it took was a nice dinner out and the promise of a honeymoon.

Angelica sets her cup down with an audible clink. "Well, either way," she says decisively, "we are shopping for your honeymoon. So let's start looking, and Gia can decide how tempting she wants her wardrobe to be."

With our security drifting behind us—and the small army that Salvatore sent with me thankfully blending in with the scenery and making themselves unobtrusive—we head towards the first of several stores. The only thing I really need are swimsuits—I have one nondescript red one that I've used for years when laying out at my family mansion's pool—but I'm not going to pass up an opportunity to abuse Salvatore's credit card. I can at least get that much out of the arrangement.

Thankfully, with it being early spring, the designer shops are full of breezy, tropical options. I try on a handful of sundresses, settling on a light yellow chiffon that comes down to just above my knees with a ruffle on one side of the skirt and thin straps, a palm-frond maxi with a low-v neckline and slits up the sides, and a light blue halter sundress. Cristina is of the opinion that the one with the palm-frond print will drive Salvatore crazy, and although I roll my eyes, the thought lingers in my head—the idea of him looking at me across a balcony in the middle of paradise, his gaze sweeping over me as I walk out into his view.

I feel a small flutter in my chest. I don't want to care about pleasing him, but a tiny part of me likes the idea.

For new shoes, I buy a pair of high-heeled Louboutin sandals with thin straps, woven espadrilles, and a pair of flat thong sandals for the beach. We browse through a jewelry store where I pick up a few pairs of hoop earrings, a dangly bracelet with diamond teardrops hanging from it like charms, and a matching gold necklace that will drape beautifully down into the neckline of the maxi dress.

We break for lunch at a sushi restaurant after dropping off the bags with my driver, and Angelica runs down the list of items she thinks I still need.

"Definitely some other clothes just for beach days—do you have any idea where he's taking you, exactly?"

I shake my head. "Somewhere tropical. That's all I really know."

"Some cute shorts and tops, maybe. And swimsuits, still. And probably a few nice dresses, in case you go out somewhere fancy—" Angelica trails off as I laugh.

"I have plenty of evening dresses and nice dinner dresses. And heels."

"No, what you have is an unlimited credit card," Rosaria points out with a grin. "Did he give you a budget?"

I shake my head. If there's one thing I don't think Salvatore is concerned with, it's money. I've never heard him mention an allowance or imposing limits on spending. Truthfully, he's avoided the topic of finances with me altogether.

"Then let's go nuts," Rosaria says with a grin. "There's nothing stopping us. After all, you should get something out of this arrangement."

It's what I was thinking earlier, so it's hard to argue with. And I don't exactly feel guilty—I hate when Salvatore calls me spoiled, but it's true that I was raised without much in the way of any limitations on getting what I want. The idea of blowing five figures on a shopping day doesn't faze me. And as long as Salvatore isn't going to come down on me for it—and maybe even if he did—I have no problem enjoying today.

I order a bottle of pinot grigio for the table, and the omakase menu for us all. For the next hour, we sit and chat about the kind of meaningless things we used to—theorizing about what tropical destination I might be going to tomorrow, discussing dress options for a charity gala Cristina is expected to attend with her mother next week, cheering up Rosaria with ideas for a bachelorette night if her engagement is finalized. A bachelorette party isn't a customary thing for mafia brides, but I want to reassure Rosaria, who is clearly dreading her marriage. If I have to, I'll convince Salvatore to let them all come over to the mansion for an evening.

I can imagine the look on his face if I suggested that.

When the last bite of sushi is scooped up, and we've polished off a second bottle of wine among the four of us, I pay the tab, and we head out to the next shop. Cristina has a devilish look on her face when we start browsing through the swimsuits, and I understand why when we get to the dressing room and she hands me what she has in her arms.

I mostly picked bikinis that were reasonably modest, as well as a couple of one-pieces with fun cutouts. I hadn't intended on using my swimwear as a means to torment Salvatore. But as I hang them up on the rack in the dressing room and see some of what Cristina has chosen, I can't help but think of what his reaction might be.

After all, my plan has been to make him rue the day he stole me at the altar. Either by making him as miserable as I've been—or, alternatively, driving him mad with desire while he continues to try to pretend that there wasn't a lustful thought in his head when he ousted my intended groom from the church.

I pick up one of the bikinis. It's comprised of what could politely be called scraps of black material, held together by delicate gold chains at the hips and breasts. I try to imagine Salvatore trying to conceal his reaction if I walked out to the pool in this, trying to pretend to be unaffected, and I feel a glimmer of cruel delight.

He wants the best of both worlds, in my eyes. He wants to style himself as my honorable protector, but also have me as his wife. He wants to tell himself that he'll come to my bed in due time when it's an absolute necessity, but he also couldn't keep his hands off himself five minutes after waking up next to me.

He wants me, and if I'm going to be forced to get used to the idea that he's going to keep me, then he's going to be forced to confront how he actually feels.

I try on the bikini with the delicate chains, stepping out of the dressing room to let my friends see. Angelica's eyebrows shoot up, and Rosaria giggles. Cristina grins.

"He's going to go crazy when he sees you in that," she says. Rosaria nods, biting her lip.

"You're going to have a wild honeymoon if you wear that." She blushes, obviously thinking about the possibility of her own honeymoon in the future. There's a look of apprehension on her face, but I see a curiosity there, too, that I recognize—because I still have some of that same curiosity.

It's at least half of what's responsible for whatever desire I feel towards Salvatore. At least, that's what I tell myself—that it's mostly curiosity. I repeat it in my head while I try on the rest of the bathing suits, settling on three more besides the black one. There's an emerald green option with a halter top that pushes up my cleavage in an eye-catching way with skimpy bottoms, a tiny white bikini, and a pink balconette style with a small ruffle along the top. It's sexy in an old-school movie star kind of way.

I buy the bikinis, and we stop at a few more shops, picking up some pairs of denim shorts and a handful of cute tops. Cristina insists that we stop in a lingerie store, and I feel an uncomfortable tightening in my stomach as we step inside the warmly vanilla-scented shop.

We're surrounded by lace and silk, velvet and ribbons, nightgowns and corsets and garters and stockings. Everything in this store is designed to seduce, to entice, to make someone desire the person wearing it. And I'm not even sure if I really want Salvatore's desire. I'm not sure how I feel about any of this at all. But as I pick up a sheer red nightgown with a ribbon tied at the cleavage, the reality of what we're doing hits me.

I'm going on a honeymoon. To an isolated place, for a length of time, I don't know, to share an intimate space with a man who I don't even know if I like. Who has yet to finish consummating our marriage. There won't be the vast space of the mansion to lose myself in, to avoid him as much as possible until I can't any longer. We'll be together. In a place made for romance.

We're either going to kill each other, or?—

I swallow hard, trying not to finish that sentence in my head. I look around the shop, feeling suddenly panicked. "I'm going to the bookstore," I tell Cristina. "You can all look around if you want. I just—need a minute."

Cristina starts to protest, but Angelica shoots her a look. "That's fine," she says gently. "Just go take a minute. We'll come find you in a few."

There's no such thing for me as really getting a moment alone, or any kind of space, especially not now. I can feel my bodyguards trailing me, and even though I don't exactly know where the rest of them are, I'm acutely aware that they're there. But I try to pretend anyway that I'm on my own, walking down the chilly sidewalk to the bookstore a block away.

Inside, it smells like tea and paper, and I take a deep breath. I hear the door open and close behind me again, and I know it's my security, but I don't look. I keep walking forward, pretending that I'm by myself. That I can have a moment to collect my thoughts without anyone seeing me.

I head for the romance section. It might seem like an odd choice, considering the fact that my own love life is in such complete shambles, but the truth is that I want to lose myself in someone else's happiness. I scan the spines, looking for a few of the ones I love—usually historical or fantasy romances. I want to be swept away in the story of a woman being swept away by a rogue, or taken away to a vampire's castle, or seduced by an outlaw cowboy. I want something so far removed from my own life that I won't think about it for a while, and I can remember when I still felt hopeful about my future. When I still believed that a love like this was in the cards for me—a willful mafia princess and her bad-boy Bratva prince.

I scan through the titles until I find a few that sound good. I'm at the counter handing over the credit card when the door chimes again, and I see Angelica, Rosaria, and Cristina walking in. Cristina is holding a matte silver bag with the name of the lingerie shop in curling script on the side of it.

"Here." She holds out the bag, and I frown at her, confused. "We picked out a few things for you. Just in case your honeymoon goes—well."

"You didn't need to do that." I bite my lip, taking my books from the cashier. "You didn't need to spend money on me?—"

Angelica snorts. "Please. Like we don't all have credit cards with someone else's name on them that we can use pretty much how we want."

I feel a small smile at the corners of my mouth. "Okay," I relent. "That's fair. Thank you."

Bags in hand, we head back to the car. My driver heads to a parking garage where their individual rides are waiting, and we all hug, exchanging goodbyes, and promises from me to take lots of pictures.

The doors close, and I'm left alone in the warm leather interior of the car, my stomach instantly in knots now that I'm alone with no distractions.

Tomorrow, I'm going somewhere far away with Salvatore. Somewhere that I've never been before. I'm excited and scared all at once.

It's making me realize that I haven't had many new experiences in my life. For all that, I was happy with it, right up until six months ago, it was a quiet, sheltered life.

Now I'm going on an adventure. And despite the company I'll be keeping, I can't help but feel a thrill prickle over my skin.

Tomorrow, I'll be somewhere I've never been before. He promised me somewhere warm, and I can't help but fantasize about where we might go—warm sun on my skin and the taste of salt air on my tongue, the smell of fresh tropical air. I can already feel the thrill of adventure, and I don't even know where it will be yet.

Regardless of who it is that I'm going with, this will be the most exciting moment of my life so far.