Page 83 of His Enemy's Daughter
He kisses me then—deep and claiming and full of promise that tastes like future instead of just survival. When we finally breakapart, both breathing hard, the ring catches sunlight and throws emerald fire across the water.
“We should celebrate,” he says, voice rough with emotion he’s not quite hiding.
“We just did.” I gesture at the pool, at our state of undress, at the obvious evidence of how we’ve spent the afternoon.
“I meant with champagne. Dinner. Calling Simeone and enduring his inevitable ‘I told you so’ about domestication.”
“Later.” I pull him back toward me, fingers threading through still-damp silver hair. “Right now, I just want to sit here with my fiancé and process the fact that I’m getting married. Actually married. To someone I chose.”
“Your fiancé.” He tests the word, smile widening. “I like the sound of that.”
“Good.” I settle against him, both of us sitting on the pool’s edge with legs dangling in water that’s cooling as afternoon shifts toward evening. “Because you’re stuck with me now. Engaged, building a business together, sharing a villa in Sicily. Very domestic. Very permanent.”
“Sounds perfect.” He stands, pulling me up with him. “Now come on. We should probably put on clothes before calling Simeone. Give the man at least a veneer of respectability.”
“Since when do you care about respectability?”
“Since I proposed to the woman I love while we were both dripping wet from pool sex.” His grin is unrepentant. “I’m building new habits. Starting with occasionally wearing pants during important phone calls.”
I laugh—bright and free and full of joy that three months ago seemed impossible. “Fair enough. Though I make no promises about staying dressed once the phone call ends.”
“I’d be disappointed if you did.” He scoops up my sundress, handing it to me with exaggerated chivalry. “After you, future Mrs. Barone.”
“Regina Barone.” I test the name, feeling how it fits. Better than Picarelli ever did. Chosen instead of inherited. Mine. “I like it.”
“So do I.” He follows me into the villa, leaving wet footprints on sun-warmed stone. “Now let’s go shock my best friend with the news that the man who said he’d never marry actually proposed. In a pool. After sex.”
“Romantic.”
“Honest.” His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together with the easy intimacy of three months building toward forever. “And that’s worth more than candles and speeches.”
I squeeze his hand, feeling the weight of the ring—promise and choice and future all wrapped in platinum and emeralds. “You’re right. It is.”
26
Mauricio
“You’re getting soft, my friend.”
David Kalinin’s voice booms across the villa’s entrance before I even fully open the door, his massive frame filling the doorway like a wall of Russian muscle and expensive cologne. He pulls me into a crushing embrace that would break lesser men, then holds me at arm’s length to study my face with critical assessment.
“Soft?” I step back, gesturing him inside. “I’ll have you know I still work out every morning.”
“I’m not talking about your body.” He follows me through the foyer, dark eyes taking in the bright, open spaces ofour Sicilian home. “I’m talking about this.” He gestures broadly at everything—the art on the walls, the flowers Regina insisted on having in every room, the general air of domestic contentment that apparently offends his sensibilities. “Where is the dangerous Mauricio Barone who survived fifteen years in hell? This looks like a villa from a travel magazine.”
“That’s because it is comfortable and well-decorated.” Regina appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel and giving David an appraising look. “You must be David. Mauricio’s told me about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” David’s expression shifts instantly—the rough prison survivor replaced by something approximating charm. He takes her offered hand, bowing slightly. “Though nothing he said prepared me for meeting you in person. Now I understand why he’s gone soft.”
“I prefer to think of it as ‘domesticated,” She shoots me a look that’s equal parts amusement and challenge as she uses the same word I throw at Simeone every chance I got. “And he’s not that soft. Just this morning, he threatened our contractor with bodily harm over delayed warehouse shipments.”
“See?” I spread my hands. “Still dangerous.”
“Threatening contractors.” David shakes his head mournfully. “In my day, you threatened people who actually deserved it. Now you’ve been reduced to intimidating men with clipboards.”
“The contractor was three weeks behind schedule and charging us for materials he never ordered.” Regina’s correction is mild but firm. “The threat was entirely justified.”
David’s laugh fills the space, genuine and loud. “I like her already. She defends your honor while simultaneously acknowledging you’re terrifying warehouse workers. This is a good woman, Mauricio.”
