Page 113 of Mila: The Godfather

And when she does, I know.

I know she’s here with me.

On the same page of our book.

Our story.

“Okay…” she breathes out and squeezes my hand three times.

Three times like her favorite number.

Like the number of days, it took me to realize that Mila Areya Parisi was more than just a girl I met one autumn night.

She’s everything.

Everything and more.

“Do you Riagan, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold. In sickness and in health, as long as you’ll both be alive?”

“I do.” There’s no hesitation on my part.

My father repeats the question this time to Mila.

I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer. I don’t have to wait long because her “I do” comes soon after.

While we exchange the rings, Mila keeps throwing shy glances up at me. “I got you, Mila. Always. No matter what.” I slip the silver band onto her small finger, and watch as it connects to her engagement ring.

“You may kiss your bride, a sheòid,” my father said. Mila’s eyes widen a fraction, as if that part of the ceremony comes as a surprise. I wait for her. I want her to give me whatever she’s comfortable with, even if it means she shakes my fucking hand instead of sealing our union with a kiss. But then, as always she manages to surprise me when she goes up on her tippy toes, grabs the back of my head, urging me to bend low, and when I do, she firmly presses her mouth against mine.

Now, as her soft lips touch mine and her sweet scent hits me, a deeply buried desire kindles inside me. I pull back, causing Mila to open her eyes. She holds my gaze, a blush creeping up her cheeks. Then she gives me a small, shy smile. So goddamn innocent.

Kelly, of course, is the first to congratulate me. He claps my shoulder with a teasing smile. “And how was the first taste of your young wife?” he asks in a low voice.

Without looking away from Mila, I speak. “Kelly.”

Kelly claps my shoulder more forcefully this time. “Yes, darling?”

“Fuck off.” My eyes linger on hers for a few seconds longer than the last time she held my face and smiled. She’s trying. She, like me, can’t help not wanting to look at anyone or anywhere else. “You’re mine now, sweet Mila.” I touch my forehead with hers. “Mrs. O’Sullivan.” I whisper proudly against her lips before claiming them once again. This time I don’t kiss her sweet or gentle, no.

I kiss her like a man who’s been starving for years.

Starving for a taste of heaven.

A taste of her.

My wife.

* * *

Mila

We said I do, and then I was pulling him in for a kiss while his people clapped.

Short and simple, but somehow it felt like everything.

Effortless and natural.

Just like us.

---