Page 41 of His Bride

“Dante, I—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, pressing a finger to my lips. “Don’t speak. Just feel.”

He pulls me closer, our bodies flush against each other. I can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady. It grounds me, even as my mind reels.

“From the moment I saw you,” Dante continues, “I knew you were meant to be mine. My wife. My queen.”

His possessiveness should frighten me. Instead, it makes my chest warm. I’ve never felt so wanted, so treasured.

“I’ll burn this city to the ground before I let anyone take you from me,” he vows.

Chapter Fourteen

Adriana

I step into my childhood home, the heavy oak door creaking shut behind me. The familiar scent of lemon polish and lavender hits me.

“Hey, it is me,” I called as I take off my shoes.

“Adriana?” My mother’s voice carries from the kitchen, surprise evident in her tone. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I round the corner to find her, hands coated in flour, a half-formed loaf of bread on the counter. Her eyes dart nervously to the hallway before settling on me.

“Hey, Mom. I just came to grab my old sketchpad. I forgot to pack it when I moved out.”

She nods, wiping her hands on her apron. “Of course, dear. It should be in your old room.”

I lean against the counter, studying her. Her fingers twitch, leaving floury smudges on the pristine marble. “I wanted to ask about your birthday coming up. Any plans?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, a bit too brightly. “Just a small gathering. Family, close friends. Nothing extravagant.”

I frown. Mom’s never been one for “small” anything. “Sounds nice. Is Papa around? I thought I’d say hi while I’m here.”

Her smile falters for a split second. “He stepped out for a bit. Some business to attend to.”

My stomach twists. Dad’s “business” has only ever brought trouble.

“I see,” I reply, drawing a pattern in the flour dusting the counter. “Well, I’ll just grab my sketchpad and-”

A loud buzz cuts through the air. Mom jumps, snatching her phone from her pocket. “I’m sorry, honey. I have to take this. Make yourself at home.”

She hurries from the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear. I wait until her hushed voice fades before heading to my old room.

The door opens with a soft click, revealing a space frozen in time. Posters of my favorite manga and comic characters still adorn the walls. The bed is neatly made, as if waiting for me to crawl under its familiar covers.

I spot my sketchpad on the desk, its leather cover worn from years of use. As I pick it up, my fingers brush against the indentations of countless sketches. Characters and stories born from my imagination.

I clutch the sketchpad to my chest and step back into the hallway. As I descend the stairs, voices drift up from the parlor. My father’s low rumble mingles with another, unfamiliar tone. Curiosity tugs at me, and I find myself inching closer.

“…cannot afford any mistakes, Giovanni,” the stranger says, his voice like gravel.

I freeze, my heart hammering. That voice.

Lorenzo De Luca.

My fingers tighten on the sketchpad as I press myself against the wall, straining to hear more.

“I understand the risks,” My father replies, his voice weary. “But this is our chance to reclaim what’s rightfully ours.”

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