Page 15 of Of Oaths and Secrets

“Oh,” I say with a shrug.You're not the only one, I admit to myself.

“Why? Why pick me, I mean?” he presses.

“You’re the future capo. How could I not?”

He studies me for a moment, doubt passing across his face. I brace myself for further argument, but he simply nods and turns back to the front.

The rest of the drive to Lorenzo Bellini Gioiellieri is smooth but tense. Rafaele remains silent, his presence filling the car with an aura of controlled power. Paolo hums softly to the radio as the cityscape rushes past the windows, the tension between us palpable but unspoken.

When we arrive, the store’s modest façade belies the treasures it holds within. Lorenzo Bellini Gioiellieri isn’t the most glamorous shop, but it’s steeped in tradition, a family business known for its craftsmanship and the personal touch that its larger competitors lack.

Rafaele opens the door for me, and as we enter, a little bell above the door jingles. The few patrons in the store look up. It’s not crowded, but there’s a sense of intimacy here that makes every action feel observed, every word heard.

The air is rich with the scent of polished wood and the faint, lingering fragrance of old-world cologne. The shop is quiet, save for the soft ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. A few display cases line the walls, showcasing intricate jewelry that sparkles under the wam, inviting light.

Rafaele moves silently beside me, his presence filling the small space like a shadow. He doesn’t need to say anything—just being here, watching me, is enough to remind me of who he is and the power he holds. The way he commands the roomwithout even trying makes it impossible to forget that I’ll soon be bound to him.

He turns his back to the store, examining a display case filled with engagement rings. I can see his reflection in the glass—calm, composed, but always assessing.

Just as I’m about to join him, an older man with a portly frame and gray hair comes bustling out from the back, his face lighting up as he spots me. His exuberance is infectious, and I can’t help but smile.

“Norina!” he exclaims, his voice full of warmth as he hurries over. “Look at you, so grown up! Are you here to see your boyfriend?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rafaele’s back stiffen at the wordboyfriend, a subtle but unmistakable reaction.

I open my mouth to correct the old man, but before I can, a woman’s voice calls from the back, “Mara, Norina is here to see Bobby. Did you like your birthday present?”

I nod and smile, the tension easing slightly as a small dog—a scruffy little terrier with bright eyes—comes trotting out from behind the counter. Bobby, a familiar and beloved sight, has been here for six years, and he’s always been my little friend.

I kneel down, reaching out to stroke him as he nuzzles into my hand. “Who’s the most beautiful boy in the world? Yes, you are!” I say as Bobby tries his absolute best to lick my face.

Rafaele’s gaze shoots to the dog, then back to me. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something almost soft, but it’s gone before I can be sure. He’s good at this, at hiding behind that cool mask. But I wonder, for just a moment, if there’s more underneath.

The old man, who had been so jovial just moments ago, notices Rafaele standing nearby. His eyes widen slightly, and his laughter dies as all the good humor drains from his face, replaced by a wary, respectful caution.

“Mr. Lucchese,” he says, straightening up and nodding in acknowledgment, his voice a bit more formal now.

Rafaele turns, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange. I can feel the shift in the atmosphere, the weight of his attention altering the dynamic.

I stand up slowly, trying to ease the tension. “I used to come here with my mother,” I explain, glancing at Rafaele. “She pretends to be allergic to dogs, but I’ve always loved them. I would beg her to bring me here just so I could spend time with the dogs in the shop. Bobby has been here for years, and he’s become my little friend,” I add as the dog jumps up, asking for my full attention back.

Rafaele’s gaze softens slightly, though he says nothing. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—understanding, perhaps, or maybe just a hint of curiosity.

The old man clears his throat, trying to regain some of his earlier warmth. “Norina has always had a kind heart,” he says, offering me a small smile. “Bobby looks forward to her visits.”

I smile down at Bobby, who’s still wagging his tail happily at my feet.

“Yes,” Rafaele says, his voice steady as he looks at me for a moment before turning toward Mr. Bellini. “We’re here to look at your engagement rings. Norina and I are engaged.”

The way he says my nickname feels deliberate, almost as if he’s testing the waters of familiarity. There’s a subtle edge to it, a reminder that he’s not entirely comfortable with the softness it implies. A cold knot forms in my stomach—will this be how our marriage feels? Will he drain away all gentleness, leaving only the sharp, unyielding edges?

“Oh! Congratulations!” Mr. Bellini exclaims, though his eyes betray a hint of concern. It’s a look that doesn’t escape Rafaele’s notice; his expression darkens, his gaze sharpening in response.

Without thinking, I reach out and grip Rafaele’s hand, forcing a smile toward Mr. Bellini. “Thank you. I can’t wait.”

Rafaele’s eyes drop to our joined hands, and his face relaxes slightly. He tilts his head to the side—a gesture I’m beginning to recognize as his way of processing something unexpected, a moment of quiet contemplation or perhaps puzzlement.

For a heartbeat, the tension eases, and I feel the warmth of his hand in mine. It’s not unpleasant. “Show us what you have, Mr. Bellini,” Rafaele says, his tone softening just a touch though his hand remains firmly in mine.

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