Epilogue

Three months later

All day long, I've been looking forward to the night Salvatore has planned for us. We had a checkup today for the baby, and the doctor gave me the envelope that would tell us if we were having a boy or a girl. I promised Salvatore we'd find out tonight, when he said he's taking me out to dinner.

I stand in front of the mirror, touching the soft swell of my stomach, still just beginning to show. I picked the black dress that he gave me for our first dinner out for tonight, and it still fits, although the silk shows the curve of my belly. I don't mind, and I know Salvatore won't, either. I have a feeling, if anything, he'll like it enough that we'll come home earlier than expected.

I've made a full recovery, physically, since the attack at the wedding. The baby was completely fine, and so was I. Emotionally, it's been more difficult, but Salvatore has been at my side through all of it, soothing me when the bad memories re-emerge and holding me close when I wake up from nightmares. And they've been fewer and fewer, recently, all of my anticipation for the future outshining my lingering hurt from the past.

My phone buzzes, telling me the driver will be ready soon. I slip on my onyx and diamond bracelet and earrings, grabbing my clutch, and head downstairs to meet Salvatore.

He's waiting for me in the foyer, in charcoal suit pants and a dark red button-down, and my heart leaps a little when I see him. His face lights up when he catches sight of me, love and desire in his expression in equal measure, and I feel a flood of happiness as I walk down to meet him.

I feel lucky to have him, lucky that things worked out the way they did, lucky that he loves me, and I love him in return. And I know he feels the same way.

"You have the envelope?" Salvatore asks as we slip into the car, and I tap my clutch.

"Right in here."

An hour later, the car pulls up in front of our destination, and I can't help but smile. It's the restaurant Salvatore took me to for that first dinner—the small, rustic Italian bistro that he owns. He opens the door for me, giving me a hand out, and smiles at the look on my face.

"Our first date as husband and wife wasn't what I hoped it would be," he says, his hand on my waist as he leans down to give me a light kiss. "I wanted to recreate it. A second chance."

"I love it," I tell him honestly, and he smiles, taking my hand as he leads me inside.

The restaurant is empty except for us, and Salvatore leads me to a table near the kitchen, the same one we sat at that night. He pulls my chair out for me, and then sits opposite, waiting for the server to bring us water and red wine for him, sparkling cider for me before he speaks.

"Do you want to find out now, or wait until the end of the night?"

"Now." I reach for my clutch. "I don't think I can wait any longer."

Salvatore laughs. "Me, either." He leans forward, moving the plate of olive oil and the basket of bread out of the way. "Put it here, and we can look at the same time."

I slip the paper free of the envelope, laying it face-down on the table between us. Our hands touch it at the same time, and I look at Salvatore, at the eager anticipation in his face. It feels like a light, loving moment, one that, once upon a time, I could never have imagined having with him.

But that's how our marriage is, now.

"One, two—three." We flip it over at the same time, and I let out a small gasp of happiness as a smile spreads over Salvatore's face.

"We're going to have a son." He looks at me, his face full of love as he leans in, his hand squeezing mine as he kisses me. "I couldn't be happier."

"It's what we both wanted." I look at the slip of paper, my chest tight with happiness. "I can't wait."

"Six more months." Salvatore chuckles at my expression.

"It's going to feel like an eternity."

"It'll go by before we know it," he promises. "But that's not the only thing I wanted to know tonight."

I blink at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

He stands up, and I stare at him, unsure of what's going on. But in one smooth motion, he goes down on a knee, and my hands fly up to cover my mouth as he takes a small box out of his pocket.

"I didn't ask the first time, Gia," he says softly. "But I'm asking you now."

He opens the box, and I see a beautiful, radiant-cut pink diamond set in rose gold shimmering up from the velvet, a trillion-cut white diamond on either side of it. It sparkles in the low light, beautiful, and exactly what I would have chosen for myself.

"I know it's a bit late," Salvatore says with a small laugh, "considering we just found out the sex of our first child. But I want to ask you anyway, Gia, because I want to go into our new life knowing that you choose me, as much as I choose you. I love you with all of my heart. Will you marry me?"

"Yes," I blurt out, before the last words are even fully out of his mouth. "Yes, I'll marry you. Of course. I love you?—"

"I love you, too." Salvatore nearly lifts me out of my chair, pulling me to my feet as he slides the ring onto my finger, his hand on my hip as his mouth crushes against mine. For a moment, I can't breathe; the restaurant and the music and everything else dissolving around us, the feeling of his mouth on mine and his ring on my finger and his arms around me is all that matters. I can feel him pressing against me, hard and solid, his hand on the small of my back roving lower, and he groans against my mouth.

A throat clears, and we jump apart, my face turning bright red. A server is standing there with our salads, and he looks from Salvatore and me, and back again.

"I can come back, sir, if?—"

"No." Salvatore shakes his head, looking as if he's on the verge of bursting into laughter, and an embarrassed giggle escapes me as he pulls out my chair so I can sink back into it. "No, thank you. Carry on."

The server deposits the salads, fleeing, and when Salvatore's eyes meet mine, we both start to laugh, hard enough that tears begin to well up in my eyes.

"This is a good start, I think." I smile at him, reaching over for his hand, seeing the way his diamond on my finger sparkles in the light. "Better than before."

Salvatore lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles softly. "And it will only keep getting better, tesoro," he murmurs. "Forever."

And I believe him. With all my heart, I believe him.

We might not have known it from the start, but there's no one in the world I'd rather spend the rest of my life with.

Salvatore is mine, forever, and I'm his.

And we're just getting started.

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Vicious Temptation

Chapter One (Bella)

The worst day of my life was a perfectly beautiful, sunny day. The kind of day any woman would want to get married on. A quintessential late spring afternoon in New York, with clear skies and a warm breeze. I can easily recall the feeling of the warmth on my skin before I walked into the cathedral, the smell of the sprays of pink and white roses that filled the space, overwhelming the usual wood-and-incense scent, see the glow of that same spring sunshine filtering through the windows and lighting up the interior on what is supposed to be the happiest day of any woman's life.

Three months later, waking up to sunshine still makes my stomach twist and my palms sweat. And this morning, when I'm supposed to meet my father in his office after breakfast to talk, is no different.

I roll out of bed, leaving my hair loose around my face as I slip into a pair of wide-cut jeans and a long-sleeved, light-weight hoodie, shoving my feet into a pair of Vans. Downstairs, I can hear the sound of the few household staff that work for my father moving around, and I quickly scrape my hair up into a messy bun atop my head, wrapping my arms around myself as I head down the hall to the stairs that lead to the first floor of our New York countryside home.

It's not a grand mansion. My father has the D'Amelio name, but only a fraction of their wealth. Lately, things have gotten a bit shinier around here, largely because of what Salvatore D'Amelio, one of the high-ranking mafia bosses in the Northeast, paid my father to get him to sign a marriage contract between me and Pyotr Lasilov, the Bratva pakhan's heir.

Just the thought of his name makes my stomach twist again, a queasy, panicked feeling spreading through me until I'm not sure I'll be able to eat breakfast.

But breakfast is waiting for me in the sunny informal dining room, waiting at a single place setting near the head of the table. My father and I used to have breakfast together, even though he's not the most pleasant man to spend time with, and we don't ever have much to talk about. But with just the two of us living here, it felt necessary. To feel like we're some semblance of a family.

Now, I wake up much later than he does, and he's given up trying to get me to do otherwise. So if I see him at all, it's at dinnertime, where he insists on meals served by our singular household staff member who stays at night.

I sink down into the chair, pulling my feet up onto the seat and tucking them under me. I couldn't do this if my father was here, he'd insist on proper posture and ladylike behavior, but when I'm by myself, I can do what I want. And I feel better like this. Safer, with my knees tucked up against my chest and one arm wrapped around them as I tug the hoodie closer around my neck and reach for the smoothie sitting to one side of the china bowl in front of me.

It tastes like peach, honey, and vanilla–my favorite. There's probably some spinach and avocado mixed in too, but I don't taste it. Gladys, our cook, has been on a mission to figure out how to make sure I get enough vitamins, and smoothies in the morning have seemed to work so far.

For an entire month, I could barely eat at all. I'm just now starting to gain some of the weight back, so I don't look like a scarecrow instead of a person.

There's a bowl of hot steel-cut oatmeal in front of me, too, with a spoonful of brown sugar on top of it, studded with dried fruits and drizzled with real cream. Gladys is really trying to tempt me to eat more in the mornings, but this one especially, I'm not sure if I'll be able to manage it.

Whatever it is that my father wants to talk to me about this morning, the idea of it has a lump of dread lodged in my stomach, making it difficult for me to even choke the smoothie down.

I manage most of it, and a few bites of the oatmeal. I glance at the clock as I swallow a third sticky bite down, seeing it's just after eleven. If I don't go now, I'll miss him before he leaves–for some business lunch, probably–and while it will mean putting off whatever news he has for me, he'll also be pissed at me for stalling.

The thought of dealing with that makes me shiver, wrapping my arms around myself despite the warmth of the sunny room, and I push my chair away from the table, resolutely heading for my father's office.

I knock once, and walk in.

His office has looked the same for as long as I can remember. It's all dark wood, from the floor-to-ceiling paneling, the hardwood floor, the bookshelves, and the desk with the two leather-backed chairs sitting in front of it. There's a bay window behind him, looking out at the small countryside property that our house is located on. The windows are tightly shut, and the air in here is frigid. My father likes to keep visitors to his office a little uncomfortable. It makes him feel powerful, and that's something he has very little of.

Which is why it didn't surprise me that he was willing to sell me off in marriage to the Bratva. It earned him money and the favor of the don, and would have made him father-in-law to the Bratva heir. A huge jump up in status, for a man whose family normally just barely can consider themselves a part of mafia society.

"Dad." I greet him as I walk in, and he looks up from behind his desk–a tall, thin man in his fifties with hair that's gone entirely grey, and a trimmed mustache and beard. He's wearing a button-down shirt with the collar open, the sleeves neatly closed at the wrists, and there's a file open on the desk in front of him. I see a glimpse of a man's picture inside of it, a middle-aged man, and I feel that queasy ripple again.

Some gut instinct, my own intuition maybe, is telling me that I'm not going to like what this meeting is about.

"Bella." He gestures for me to sit down, and I do, sinking into one of the stiff leather chairs. I keep my hands in my lap and my feet on the floor, but my father still gives me a disapproving look as he takes in my choice of clothing.

"You look like a street urchin. It's summer."

"It's definitely barely above fifty degrees in your office, so I think I made the right choice." I purse my lips, feeling my heartbeat ratchet up a notch. "What's going on?"

My father makes a small, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. "What's going on, Bella, is that I think I've finally managed to arrange a new match for you. Tommas Ferrero. Not one of the most distinguished mafia names, but after what happened with your last engagement–" he breaks off, and I feel my entire body go rigid.

This. This is exactly what I was afraid of when my father said he wanted to meet.

"Finally?" The word comes out as a hoarse croak past the tightness in my throat. "It's been three months. Not–years. You make it sound like I'm some kind of–Victorian spinster or something–"

"The sooner the better." My father pushes the papers towards me, the man's photo on top of it. "It's hard enough to find anyone interested, Bella. Our family name has some weight, but you know as well as I do how far down in the ranks I am. And after the incident with Pyotr–well, Tommas is the first who's shown any interest in you at all."

"The first," I say numbly, staring at the picture. There's nothing particularly significant or interesting about the man staring up at me. Dark hair with hints of greying at the temples, dark eyes, a flat expression, a not-objectionable face. "You make it sound like you've been looking for someone since I was brought back here."

My father doesn't respond at first, and that's really all the answer I need. "There's plenty of gossip about your–condition, Bella. You're lucky that Tommas–"

"My condition?" I look up at my father, feeling that tightness in my throat spread, turning into a hot burn of tears behind my eyes. "You mean the result of how I've been ever since I was brought back after the Bratva–who you convinced me I would be safe with–"

"We don't need to go over it again, Bella." He cuts me off sharply, and I sink back into the chair, feeling like I've been struck. I know that my father thinks that I'm being dramatic, that the reactions I'm still having to the aftermath of what Pyotr and his men did to me should have stopped by now. But it hurts every time I'm faced with it.

There's a reason I keep to myself most of the time now. Why I spend most of my time in my room and eat most of my meals alone. Why I don't wake up until late, and feel tired all day.

"The deal was presented as genuine," he continues, letting out a frustrated breath as he takes the papers and Tommas' photo and pulls them back to his side of the desk. "I couldn't have known it was a trap, Bella. Or what would happen to you. You can't possibly think that I–or Salvatore, for that matter–believed that was what would happen. Otherwise, neither of us would ever have agreed to it."

I know he's right. Deep down, I really do. My father is a greedy man, and one who would do a lot for more power, but I don't think he would have outright sold me to a monster if he knew what that monster had planned. He thought that the Bratva's promise of my safety, and the additional security that Salvatore had arranged and paid for, would be enough.

It's just that he was wrong, and now I have to bear the cost of it.

"I don't want to get married again," I whisper, feeling panic tangle in my throat and threaten to cut the words off entirely. "I can't. Please–I really can't do it. Even just more time–"

But as I say it, I know it's not true. More time isn't going to fix it. I don't want to marry anyone else. The idea of putting on a wedding dress again makes me feel as if my skin is too tight for my body, as if I can't breathe, and the idea of walking into a church and down an aisle towards another man that my father has told me to marry sends that queasy feeling spiraling through me, until it feels like I might throw up on the gleaming hardwood floor of my father's office. Panic floods me at the thought of someone touching me, at the thought of all the things I would be expected to do with this future husband, and I feel like a trapped animal, on the verge of gnawing my own limb off in a bid to be free.

He takes a deep, slow breath, as if he's trying to be patient with me. "I understand that you're struggling, Bella. I do. I will find someone who I'm certain won't hurt you. Tommas, to my knowledge, is a good man, and I'll do my due diligence to make sure that he will be a kind and understanding husband to you. If not him, then I will find someone else, but you need to marry soon, Bella. Our family needs–"

"You don't understand." I press a hand to my ribs, trying to breathe, trying to make my father grasp what it is that I'm saying. "I don't want to get married at all. I don't want to marry Tommas, or anyone else."

The look on my father's face tells me that he's close to losing his patience. "That's ridiculous, Bella. What are you going to do if you don't get married? All mafia daughters marry. That's your duty, in this world of ours. To make a good match, and elevate our family. To ensure that we rise higher, through the generations. If you marry well, then your children will rise further, and so on."

His voice has taken on the note that it does when he's about to lecture me–a lecture I've heard before, on legacies and the importance of building them, and my place in all of that. It doesn't matter that so far as I can tell, this world we live in is shrinking as the one outside of it moves further and further into the modern age, and ideas like my father's will become obsolete.

"I could go to college," I venture. I can feel the panic winding tighter and tighter, heat burning behind my eyelids, but I have to try. "You know how much I love photography. I could get a degree in it, try to have a career of my own–"

"That's a hobby, not a job. Don't be ridiculous, Bella." My father shakes his head, as if he can't believe we're having this conversation. "And you don't need a job. You need a husband, so you can do what you were always meant to for this family. If you were a son, your responsibility would be to inherit after me. Your responsibilities are different, but no less important."

"I can't," I whisper. Tears well up, stinging my eyes. I can't do it. Tommas looks innocuous enough from his picture; probably not someone who would hurt me the way Pyotr and his men did, but I still can't. I know down to the very depths of my bones that doing this is impossible.

I won't survive it. But my father thinks I'm just being dramatic.

"You've done your duty before," he says stiffly, shuffling the papers into a pile. "You can do it again, Bella."

Somewhere in the midst of all the fear and hurt, a rare surge of anger jolts upwards, searing through me. "You should think about where that got me," I snap, lashing out as I realize, somewhere deep within myself, that there's no escaping this. My father will marry me off to someone again, and I have no path out.

He stiffens, narrowing his eyes at me. He knows he should take a large portion of the blame for what happened, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to admit that he's responsible for allowing such terrible things to have happened to his only child.

"I have another meeting," my father says tightly. "Go upstairs, Bella. We'll talk about this later."

There's a finality in his voice that brooks no argument. I don't know if I even want to try to argue. I'm not going to get anywhere with him, and right now, all I want is to be alone so that I can have my burgeoning panic attack in peace.

I stand up abruptly, shoving the chair back as the tears start to spill over. I don't want to cry in front of my father, not when he so clearly doesn't understand how this feels, or why I'm not over it yet, or why I can't stand the thought of being married again. Here, in this room with him, I feel more lonely than I do when I really am alone.

I bolt for the door, wanting to be out of the uncomfortable room, away from the photo still staring up from my father's desk, away from all the expectations that I know I can't fulfill.

The warm air of the hallway hits me like a slap to the face as I rush out of the cold office. I swallow hard, the tears falling faster as I bolt towards the foyer and the stairs that will lead up to my room, all of my focus on getting behind the closed door of my personal sanctuary as quickly as I possibly can.

I'm so focused on that, that I don't even see the man who walks into my path as I rush down the hall. Not until I run right into him, smacking against a hard, broad chest as he comes to an abrupt halt right in front of me.

Strong hands grab my upper arms, keeping me from falling ungracefully to the floor. He holds me there for a moment, and I smell spice and vanilla, filling my senses.

I look up at the man who caught me, and directly into the greenest eyes I've ever seen.