Page 77 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"Forget it. I didn’t mean?—"
"No," he cuts in, voice quieter than before. "It isn’t."
14
DANTE
The next morning settles into the south wing with a hush that feels almost sacred.
For once, I don't wake to silk sheets tangled around a stranger’s limbs or the noise of the city bleeding in through the windows.
There is warmth beside me, not heat; softness, not seduction.
The scent clinging to the pillows is Gianna’s—orchids and something citrusy beneath them, a ghost of a perfume that I never learned the name of.
I lie still, watching the ceiling catch the pale sweep of early sunlight as it spills through the high windows.
For a moment, I don't move.
The rhythm of life is different now.
It's slow and steady, but not dreadful in the way I thought it would be.
Not like chains, not like a sentence.
There is gravity to it, yes, but it feels earned.
Real.
Gianna stirs, still tangled in the sheet, her brow furrowing as if even in sleep she is already calculating something.
I watch her for a breath longer, then slide out of bed, take a shower and dress without noise.
The morning air has cooled, the estate’s old stone walls holding onto the breath of night.
My shirt clings damp against my back where the shower hadn’t fully dried me.
I leave my tie undone.
In the hallway, the staff pretend not to look, but I catch the glance one of the servers gives as I pass him on the way to the garden.
There’s a different tone to his nod now, it shows less deference and more acknowledgement.
As if marrying Gianna has made me into something permanent, something rooted, in a way the Salvatore name alone never did.
I follow the muffled sound of giggles until I reach the terrace.
The garden lies just beyond, glowing with sunlight.
The olive trees sway in a breeze too soft to feel from the hallways.
The twins are out there, racing along the low stone wall that wraps around the lavender beds, their curls flying, barefoot despite the dew still clinging to the grass.
A housekeeper attempts to trail them with a disapproving look, holding out a pair of shoes as if that might make them stop.
It doesn’t.
They shriek with laughter when they see me.
