Page 23 of Lord of Little Italy

"You were so grumpy that day."

"I'm always grumpy."

"Not with me." She kisses my chest, right over my heart. "Not anymore."

The words slip out before I can think. "Marry me."

She goes still in my arms. "What?"

"Marry me." I tilt her chin up, meet her eyes. In the dim light, they shine with something that makes my chest ache. "I love you. I've loved you since . Tonight, when I thought... when they..."

"Tony..."

"I can't lose you." My voice is rough, stripped of all pretense. "I can't pretend I don't want forever with you. Marry me, Isabella."

She pushes up on one elbow, studies my face. There's a cut above her eyebrow that makes me want to kill those men all over again. "The families..."

"Don't care." I cup her cheek. "Let them talk. Let them plot. None of it matters except you."

A slow smile spreads across her face. "You're serious."

"Deadly." I brush my thumb across her split lip. "Say yes."

"Yes." She kisses me softly, then deeper. "Of course yes."

I pull her closer, something tight in my chest finally loosening. She's here. She's safe. She's mine. Forever.

"I don't have a ring yet," I murmur into her hair.

"Don't care." She tangles our fingers together. "Just don't let go."

"Never."

Her breathing evens out, but I stay awake, watching her sleep. Memorizing every detail - the curve of her shoulder, the faintscar on her collarbone, the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks.

Outside, the city keeps moving. Somewhere, Dom is dealing with the aftermath of tonight. Somewhere, families are plotting, alliances are shifting, enemies are watching.

None of it matters.

Isabella is in my arms, saying yes to forever. Everything else is just details.

I hold her tighter, feeling her heartbeat against mine. Alive. Safe. Mine.

Tomorrow, I'll get her a ring. Tomorrow, we'll deal with families and politics and consequences.

But tonight... tonight is just us. Me and my fierce princess.

Forever.

Epilogue

Isabella

Six months after the wedding, I'm on Tony's private jet heading to Montana. My husband - still love saying that - insisted on the jet after hearing about the December weather in Bozeman. He's adorably protective, even if I had to practically push him out the door this morning.

"Stop worrying," I told him. "I'm going to Rachel's family ranch, not a war zone."

"It's Montana in winter," he grumped. "Same thing."

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