Page 120 of My Dark Ever After
“We might never know,” Raffa warned. “But the Albanians will be here tonight. Drita’s brother was the one who dated Gemma. You can ask her some questions, though she may be reluctant to share.”
“Why?”
“I killed her brother when she tried to play games with me after you were taken.”
I blinked at him in the reflection, but he was utterly calm and sincere. For some reason, it made me want to laugh. Standing in all our designer finery, with thousands of euros’ worth of jewels on my person, and we were talking easy as you please about murder.
It was fitting somehow.
“Well, that’s understandable but inconvenient,” I said with a small sigh.
Raffa let out a guffaw of surprised laughter, his arms wrapping me up like a present. “Sei magnifica. You never fail to surprise me.”
Warmth flooded me. I wondered if it would always be like this between us, even as I knew it would be. For exactly the reason Raffa had just proclaimed, we would never fail to surprise each other.
“Let’s get married tomorrow,” I said suddenly, and I could tell he was surprised by the split second he froze with his lips against my throat. “I don’t want to wait.”
“We have nothing but time, Vera,” he cautioned, wrapping one arm around my waist to bring me tight against his front. “I am not marrying you for political reasons. We can wait as long as we wish.”
“Then why did you propose now?” I countered with an arched brow.
He matched the expression. “Because I had just lived through four days believing you might be dead. I did not want to live another twenty-four hours without telling you how ardently I love you and want you beside me for the rest of time.”
“For a mafioso,” I said somewhat breathlessly, “you are the sweetest man I’ve ever known.”
“Do not mention that to the people waiting at the Cimitero delle Porte Sante,” he suggested dryly, referring to the cemetery where he was hosting the gathering. “It would ruin a reputation I have spent considerable time cultivating.”
I bit the edge of my grin. “No, it is my secret gift, and I intend to keep it that way. But Raffa, I still want to get married soon. I know it has only been a few months, but I feel as if I have waited my whole life to be here in this place with you as my person. I want us to own each other in every way we can.”
His copper-coin eyes flashed with delight. “It is not enough that you have my ring on your finger and fresh cum leaking down your thighs?”
I squirmed, hyperaware of the dampness of my underwear. Raffa had requested I not clean up before the party. He wanted to know that his cum was inside me while I spoke with men who would covet me for my beauty and spirit.
“It’s enough for now,” I allowed. “But you do call me your greedy girl sometimes. Let me be greedy in this. I wasted so much of my life being afraid to go after what I wanted, and now I know what I want. You.”
“How soon?” he asked with a sigh, but he could not quite hide the edge of his smile.
“Before my parents leave?” I suggested. “Mom said they might as well stay for Christmas. I would love to have a winter wedding at the villa.”
“As you wish,stella cadente mia.” He turned me around by the hips to seal the words with a kiss.
I laughed when he pulled away with my red gloss on his mouth and cleaned it with my thumb.
“Red is much more your color than mine,” he agreed drolly.
I beamed at him. “I wear it for you, though.”
“I know.” His features softened for a moment as he pushed my hair back and framed my neck in his hands. “Now, your sweet Raffa is gone for the rest of the night, and in his place, your King Below. Are you ready to embrace my dark kingdom?”
“Lead the way.”
This party was not like the San Lorenzo celebration Raffa had hosted at the palazzo for our collective friends.
For one, Raffa hosted his annual Day of the Dead party in the Cimitero delle Porte Sante, the Sacred Gates Cemetery, just behind Piazzale Michelangelo in the fortified bastion of the Basilica of San Miniato al Monte. It was a public resting place of famous Italian figures, such as the author ofPinocchio, but thanks to his connections with local officials, like the mayor, Raffa was granted private access after hours.
It should have been macabre, maybe, but Italians’ Day of the Dead on November 2 was not like Halloween in the US. It was a time of reflection and a reminder that we continued to love our family and friends even when they passed beyond the veil.
The tombs themselves were works of art, statues and mausoleums gleaming in the light of dozens of standing candelabras erected throughout the space. Everyone had come bearing flowers to place ongraves out of respect, but Raffa had ordered countless more, so the very air was thick with fragrance.
