“Of what this means,” I said. “Of what I’m choosing.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re choosing him.”
“Yes.”
“And the empire.”
“Yes.”
“And the blood.”
I looked at her.
And then I nodded. “Yes.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to talk me out of it. She just smiled, soft and real, and squeezed my hand.
“Then let’s go make you a Conti. Again.”
The ceremony was heldin the vineyard.
Not mine. Not yet. But the one Dante had bought for me, the one we’d walked together just a week ago, hand-in-hand, talking about grapes and soil and futures.
Rows of white chairs lined the edge of the vines, facing a raised platform draped in white silk and framed by arches of roses and olive branches. The sun was beginning to set, casting everything in gold. The air smelled like lavender and wine and something sweeter—hope, maybe.
The guests were already seated when I stepped out of the villa, my arm looped through my brother Marco’s. He looked uncomfortable in his tux, his expression tight, but he didn’t complain. He just glanced at me, then muttered, “You sure about this?”
I smiled. “Too late to run. And we technicallyaremarried already.”
He grunted. “I’ll keep the car running anyway.”
The music swelled.
And then I was walking.
The world narrowed to the path in front of me and the man waiting at the end of it.
Dante.
He wore a black tuxedo, crisp and perfect, with a black shirt and a black tie. His hair was slicked back, his jaw freshly shaven, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were locked on me like I was the only thing that existed.
He didn’t smile.
Not at first.
But when I reached him—when he placed my hand in his and stepped back—he leaned in and whispered, “You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.”
And then he smiled.
And I forgot how to breathe.
The vows were traditional.
At first.
But then Dante took my hands in his, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “I vow to protect you. To worship you. To burn the world down if it ever tries to take you from me.”
The vineyard held its breath.