Page 20 of The Proposal

When he reaches up to bop the tip of my nose, I slap his hand away. “I’m just catering to your wishes. What’s that saying? Happy wife, happy life?”

I narrow my eyes and snatch the pillow from his hand, muttering, “Stronzo,” under my breath.

He chuckles, a low, amused sound, before turning and heading towards the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

It took forever for me to fall asleep on the damn floor. After Dante showered and changed, he left the bedroom and didn’t come back. Not while I was still awake anyway. I have no clue where he went.

Part of me was tempted to climb into the comfortable bed to spite him, but I knew he was probably waiting for me to relent. And there was no way I was going to give him that satisfaction.

Sometime during the night, though, he returned because when I opened my eyes this morning, I was beside him on the mattress and wrapped in his arms … just like the flight home.

It’s unsettling to think that he’s carrying me around while I’m asleep, and I’m completely unaware. I’ve always been a light sleeper. It was a necessity growing up under the same roof as my father. The house might have been heavily guarded, but when you live with a career criminal—a madman—especially one as hated and powerful as Stefano Rossi, you learn not to trust anything, not even the quiet of the night.

Dante’s heavy arm is draped over my waist, and although there’s something oddly safe and comforting about being held by him, which I’d never admit out loud, I desperately need to pee.

I carefully lift his arm and slide out from underneath it, slipping off the side of the bed like a thief in the night.

As I stand, I turn and pause, glancing down at my sleeping husband. He looks so youthful and peaceful—a stark contrast to the man I saw last night when we arrived here. My heart clenches at the thought. I feel torn between the dangerous man he is and the vulnerability he exudes.

I want to despise him for everything he is, but I’m still waiting to see the monster lurking within. Apart from making me sleep on the hard floor for the first half of the night, which, to be fair, I had asked for, he’s shown me more humility than I’ve extended to him, and for that, I feel ashamed. I need to do better.

Though this marriage may not be traditional, there’s no harm in us being cordial. It might make our cohabitation a bit more bearable.

After brushing my hair and pulling it into a high ponytail, I clean my teeth and wash my hands. Once I’ve slipped into my silk robe, I quietly pad down the hallway towards the grand staircase.

Dante gave me a tour of his place last night, but I noticedhe purposely avoided the back of the house. Is that where his secret Mafia business is hidden? Or does that part of the house remind him too much of his father? It took me a long time to find the courage to enter my mother’s bedroom or even hold her things after we lost her. The pain was too raw.

When I step into the kitchen, I check the fridge and then move to the pantry, gathering what I need as I go. Dante mentioned he had one of his men drop off the basics yesterday, but offered to have someone take me to do a full shop later today.

The fridge is sparse—just eggs, milk, butter, and some orange juice—but the pantry is a different story. It’s like a treasure trove. Whoever cooked before I arrived undoubtedly knew what they were doing.

I line up all my ingredients on the countertop, preparing everything to cook. A glance at the clock on the wall shows it’s only 5:30 am. I’ve got plenty of time before Dante’s men arrive to prepare their feast.

From what I’ve seen in the movies, bacon and eggs seem to be a staple for Westerners in the morning. However, having a sweet breakfast accompanied by good coffee is more traditional in Italy.

Things like cornetti—similar to filled croissants—are standard. Other pastries include sfogliatelle, maritozzi, and biscotti. I’ve made all of the above for Dante and his men.

I learned the basics from my mother while she was still alive, but after her passing, my father brought in a renowned Italian chef to teach me how to cook. When my sister was old enough to help in the kitchen, I taught her.

Papa always held a grudge against my mother for giving him only daughters. Since he didn’t see either Lucia or me asworthy heirs to his empire, he chose instead to mould us into ideal wives, hoping that one day we would provide him with what our mother couldn’t.

As I pull the last tray from the oven and place it with the others that now line the countertop, I hear, “What the fuck happened in here?”

My head snaps towards the archway, where I see Dante. He’s wearing only a pair of grey boxer briefs. I will need to talk with him about wearing more clothes when he’s in my vicinity.

My eyes peruse their way down his body of their own accord, and just like the white underwear he wore on our wedding night, these leave little to the imagination.

The outline of his thick, long penis is prominently on display, and the sight has that pulsing need between my legs returning. My body’s shameless reaction to him has my cheeks heating, so I return to the task at hand, hoping he didn’t notice.

I’m surprised I find his ripped body and those tattoos so appealing. It’s not something I ever thought I’d be attracted to.

“I’m cooking breakfast,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. His ego is big enough already. He needs no encouragement.

He walks up behind me, and his closeness causes a shiver to course down my spine. “You made all this?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

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