Page 31 of His Bride

I offer a small smile. “Just… reflecting on how much has changed. How much I’ve changed.”

Something flashes in his eyes - pride? Satisfaction? Before I can decipher it, he brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Change isn’t always a bad thing, Adriana,” he says softly.

We step out into the night and into the car. I watch the neon-lit world blur past, my fingers absently tracing patterns on the seat as the car glides through the city. Dante’s hand rests possessively on my thigh, a constant reminder of his presence.

“Where are we going?” I ask, curiosity winning the best of me.

A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Patience cara, we’ll soon be there.”

I turn my attention back to watching the night streets. Twenty-minutes later, we pull up to a discreet entrance, no gaudy signs or flashy valet stands. Just a simple door with an attentive doorman who nods respectfully as we approach. “Mr. and Mrs. Rossi,” he greets, opening the door.

The restaurant interior hits me like a wave - soft lighting, the gentle clink of crystal, hushed conversations. Rich wood paneling and deep red accents create an intimate atmosphere. A maître d’ appears, bowing slightly.

“Your usual table, Mr. Rossi?”

Dante nods, his hand on the small of my back as we’re led through the dining room. I feel eyes on us, curious glances quickly averted when Dante’s gaze sweeps the room. We’re seated in a secluded alcove, partially hidden by a curved wall.

“What do you think?” Dante asks once we settle in.

I offer a small smile. “It’s beautiful. Intimate. Not what I expected.”

A hint of a smile plays at his lips. “And what did you expect, cara?”

I hesitate, not wanting to offend. “Something more… ostentatious, I suppose.”

He chuckles, a low sound that sends warmth through me. “I prefer subtlety. True power doesn’t need to shout.”

A waiter materializes, pouring wine with practiced ease. As he recites the specials, I study Dante’s face in the candlelight. The sharp planes of his cheekbones, the intensity of his gaze - how can someone so dangerous be so captivating?

When we’re alone again, I gather my courage. “Dante,” I say softly, “I realized… I don’t know much about you..other than gist of who you are. What were you like as a boy?”

There is a flash in his eyes - pain? Nostalgia? It’s gone before I can grasp it.

“Curious tonight, aren’t we?” he says, his tone light but with an edge of warning.

I press on, determined. “I’d like to know you better. What did you enjoy doing?”

Dante is silent for a long moment, swirling the wine in his glass. When he speaks, his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “I used to…”

I lean in, captivated by this rare glimpse of vulnerability.

“I used to cook with my mother,” Dante continues, his eyes distant. “She’d lift me onto a stool, let me stir the sauce. I dreamed of being a chef one day.”

The image of a young Dante, flour on his cheeks, catches me off guard. I can’t suppress a smile. “A chef? Really?”

He nods, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” I say, emboldened. “You should cook for me sometime.”

Dante’s eyes lock onto mine, intense and unreadable. “Perhaps I will.”

A pang of guilt hits me as I remember why he no longer cooks with his mother. “I’m sorry about your parents,” I offer softly. “It must have been difficult.”

He stiffens slightly, but nods. “Thank you, Adriana.”

Just then, our food arrives, steam rising from perfectly plated dishes. As we eat, the conversation stays light, but I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us. A door cracked open, revealing glimpses of the man behind the underboss.

I find myself laughing at a story about his first attempt at tiramisu when I sense a presence behind me.

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