Page 37 of Saint
“Congratulations, sweetheart,” she says, her voice too bright, like crystal struck too hard. When she pulls back, I catch the fear flickering behind her mascara-perfect eyes—the same fear I’ve noticed since Luca slid that seven-carat diamond onto my finger.
My father, the governor of New York, shakes Luca’s hand, his knuckles white against his sun-spotted skin. “Take care of my little girl.” It sounds more like a plea than the stern warning it’s meant to be, his voice barely audible above the string quartet.
“With my life,” Luca responds, his deep voice carrying an edge that makes my father step back, his polished Italian loafers squeaking against the marble floor.
I scan the room, catching sight of a couple lingering near the Monet-inspired floral arrangements. The woman’s once raven-black hair now cascades in honey-blonde waves past her shoulders, and the man’s formerly precise, close-cropped beard has grown into a thick, russet tangle that obscures half his face. But those eyes—hers like polished amber, his the color of the sky—I’d recognize them in any lifetime. Nico and Caterina. My heart swells against my ribcage knowing they’ve crossed an ocean and risked exposure to be here, when newspaper headlines and police reports still declare them victims of that church fire three months ago. Their presence, this dangerous gift, will mean everything to Luca.
Nico’s gaze locks with mine for just a heartbeat before he touches Caterina’s elbow with two fingers. He gives me the slightest nod—a secret handshake between co-conspirators—before they dissolve into the sea of black tuxedos and jewel-toned gowns. The Mediterranean sun has kissed their skingolden, and there’s a newfound serenity in their disguised features I hadn’t seen during those frantic nights of planning their escape.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Ravello.” A tall, powerful-looking man with salt and pepper hair approaches, flanked by four others. I recognize them now—the heads of the five families, though I pretend not to know the significance. They bow their heads slightly to Luca, a deference I’m still getting used to.
“Thank you for coming, Don Serpico,” Luca says smoothly, his Brooklyn accent completely absent now, replaced by the polished tones he uses in public.
I feel eyes tracking our every move as we make our rounds. Two months ago, I was just a governor’s daughter propositioning the charismatic businessman who donated to my father’s campaign. Now I’m married to New York’s youngest mayor in decades—a man who commands respect from both the penthouses and the streets.
“Time to surrender this,” Zoe appears at my side, plucking my bouquet from my hands. “First dance in two minutes. Don’t trip.”
The orchestra begins a slow melody as Luca leads me to the center of the ballroom. His massive hand engulfs mine, his 6’5” frame making me feel like a doll as he pulls me close.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he murmurs, his sapphire eyes darkening to midnight as they devour every inch of me, from the plunging neckline that reveals the swell of my breasts to the curve of my waist where his possessive fingers dig into silk. “Every man in this room is imagining what I get to do to you tonight, and every single one of them knows they’ll never taste what belongs to me.”
I press closer to him, feeling the hard planes of his chest against me. “I’m yours,” I agree, still amazed at how completely I mean it.
His lips brush my ear again, his voice dropping to a growl only I can hear. “When we leave here, I’m going to rip that dress off you with my teeth. Then I’m going to spread you open on our wedding sheets and devour you until you’re soaking wet and screaming my name... and that’s before I even give you what you really need.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and lower, much lower. “Luca,” I whisper, scandalized and aroused in equal measure. "We’re in public.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “For now, baby girl. For now.”
His hand slides lower on my back, dipping just below proper etiquette as the music swells around us. The weight of three hundred pairs of eyes on us should make me self-conscious, but all I can focus on is the heat radiating from Luca’s body, the intoxicating scent of him, the way his eyes never leave mine.
Without warning, he dips me low, supporting my weight effortlessly with one powerful arm. Before I can catch my breath, his lips capture mine in a kiss that’s far too intimate for our dignified audience. I hear a few gasps, the click of cameras, but I’m drowning in him, in us, in this moment that feels both like a performance and the most private confession.
When he pulls me back up, I’m dizzy, clinging to his broad shoulders.
“I can’t wait to have you all to myself,” he whispers, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear. His voice is liquid velvet, dark and dangerous. “First, I’m going to flip you over, spread those pretty legs, and taste every inch of you.” His thumb traces circles on my lower back. "I’ll make you come with my tongue, my fingers, over and over until you’re sobbing my name. My breath catches, and I stumble slightly. His arm tightens around me, steadying me as we continue to sway.
“Then, I’m going to bend you over our bed while you’re still in this dress, hike it up over your hips, and take you from behind until you’re begging me to let you come.” Heat floods my body, pooling between my thighs. I’m certain my face must be scarlet, but I can’t look away from his eyes, dark with promise.
“After that,” he continues, his voice dropping even lower, “I’m going to take you in ways you’ve never imagined. Every position. I’m going to claim every part of you, baby girl. By morning, there won’t be an inch of your body that doesn’t know who you belong to.”
"Luca,” I gasp, barely able to form words. "Everyone’s watching.”
His smile is predatory, sending a shiver down my spine. “Let them watch. Let them see how much I want my wife.” His emphasis on ‘wife’ makes my heart race. “Let them wonder what I’m whispering to make you blush so prettily.”
The music shifts, and other couples begin to join us on the dance floor. My father approaches with my mother, ready for the traditional father-daughter dance, but Luca holds me tighter.
“One more minute,” he tells them, his tone brooking no argument. Even the governor of New York doesn’t challenge him.
He pulls me closer, his massive frame enveloping mine completely. “And when I’m finally done with you, when you think you can’t possibly take any more pleasure, I’m going to hold you in my arms and start all over again.” His lips brush my temple. "That’s my promise to you, Mrs. Ravello. For tonight, and for the rest of our lives.”
As he finally releases me to my father’s waiting arms, I’m trembling, my body a live wire of anticipation. Over my father’s shoulder, I watch Luca’s eyes track my every movement, dark with possession and promise.
My father clears his throat awkwardly. “You look happy, Lily,” he says, his voice strained. “I hope... I hope he’s good to you.”
I smile, knowing that my father can never understand the choice I’ve made, the man I’ve chosen. “He is, Dad. In ways you can’t imagine.”
The reception continues in a blur of champagne toasts and cake cutting, of first dances and speeches. Through it all, Luca keeps me close, his hands always finding reasons to touch me—my waist, the small of my back, the nape of my neck. Each touch is a reminder, a promise of what awaits us when we finally escape this glittering crowd.
