Page 521 of Rosetti Family New York
Her breathing quickens. She looks at the collar with hungry recognition that tells me everything about her answer before I ask.
"This isn't a traditional proposal," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "But nothing about us has been traditional."
The collar is butter-soft leather in blue-black, the exact shade I've seen her wear. Her name engraved in silver, elegant and permanent.
"Carmela Rosetti." I meet her gaze directly, letting her see past every wall. "Will you wear my collar? Will you be mine permanently, in marriage and in all the ways that matter to us?"
My hands don't shake as I wait. Something about how she looks at the collar, at me, tells me this isn't really a risk at all.
Her smile transforms her entire face. She doesn't hesitate. She turns, lifting her hair to expose the elegant line of her neck.
"Yes. In every way, for always. Marry me, Van. Own me. Love me."
The yes floods through me like adrenaline, like relief, like coming home. My hands are perfectly steady as I lift the collar from its velvet box, as I position it around her throat with careful precision.
"Turn around. Let me see how perfectly this fits."
My fingers work the buckle, adjusting until it sits exactly right. Not tight enough to restrict, but snug enough that she'll feel it with every breath, every movement.
The leather settles against her throat like it belongs there. When she turns back, her eyes shine with happiness and certainty.
Her hand goes to her throat instinctively, fingers tracing the collar's edge—unconscious, natural, already adapting to its presence.
"How does it feel?"
"Perfect. Like it was made for me. Like I was made for this."
She was. Made for submission, for my dominance, for the exchange that heals us both. Made to be claimed by a man who understands that owning her means protecting her, cherishing her.
"We're engaged," Carmela says, testing the words. The collar moves with her throat as she speaks. She giggles then, and jumps into my arms. "Engaged!"
I stagger under her weight, my leg giving way, shoulder collapsing, but I don't give a damn.
I capture her mouth in a kiss that tastes like forever, like healing, like home. She melts against me when I take control, when I claim what's mine. The collar presses against my hand as I cup her throat.
"Are you ready to go home?" she asks when I finally release her mouth.
Home. New York. The place where we'll build our permanent life together, where she'll wear my collar with pride, where we'll be partners in medicine and marriage and all the ways that matter.
"With you?" I study the collar gleaming against her throat, her submission freely given, our future secured by love and lethal family protection. "I'm ready for anything."
30 - Carmela
The silk scarf hides Van's collar perfectly. My fingers drift to touch the hidden leather through expensive fabric as we approach my family's gathering. Three months ago, he would have dropped me at the door and disappeared. Now he's walking into the mansion wearing the Tom Ford suit I picked out, looking like he was born to own rooms like this.
"Stop fidgeting with it," Van murmurs. "Unless you want your brothers to figure out exactly what you're wearing under that pretty dress."
Heat flushes through me, but there's pride too. Being claimed by this man who notices every exit even at his own engagement party.
The terrace glows with elegant lighting, crystal fountains catching afternoon sun. White linens, champagne flutes, servers moving like choreographed dancers between guests. Everything I once ran from, now mine by choice.
Van stays steady, but I catch how he assesses every guest, every server, every possible threat. Old habits from Afghanistan that love helps manage but hasn't erased.
"Breathe," I murmur, squeezing his arm where rope burns have faded to thin white lines beneath the suit. "They love you."
"They tolerate me because I'm useful," he says, but without his usual edge.
Dom spots us first, raising his glass. "There they are."
