I didn't sleep that night.
I lay in my penthouse, staring at the ceiling, and I could still feel her mouth against mine. Still smell the faint floral scent of her hair. Still hear the soft sound she'd made when I'd pulled her closer.
Sofia Bianchi had kissed me.
Not because she had to. Not because of the debt or the wedding or our families. Because she wanted to.
The realization was terrifying.
I'd spent thirty-one years building walls. Keeping everyone at a distance. Telling myself I didn't need anyone, didn't want anyone, that the family was enough.
Then she'd walked into my life with her sharp tongue and her bookstore and her stubborn refusal to be impressed by me, and the walls had started crumbling.
Now they were rubble.
My phone buzzed at 6 AM. Marco.
Meeting at the warehouse. We have a problem.
Of course we did.
I showered, dressed, and tried to become Antonio Matteo, underboss of the most powerful family in New York. The man who could order deaths without flinching. The man who'd killed his first enemy at fourteen.
But when I looked in the mirror, I saw a man who'd spent the night dreaming of a woman's smile.
That was new.
---
The problem was Russian.
Viktor Petrov had been making noise for months—testing borders, leaning on our associates, building his operation. We'd dismissed him as small-time. A nuisance, not a threat.
But small-time nuisances didn't hit Matteo warehouses at dawn.
"Two men dead," Marco reported as we walked through the crime scene. Blood on the concrete. Bullet holes in the walls. The smell of death, familiar and awful. "They came in fast, took the shipment, left a message."
"What message?"
Marco handed me a piece of paper. One word, written in block letters:
LEAVE.
I crushed it in my fist.
"Viktor wants territory," Marco continued. "He's been meeting with the Irish, the Greeks, anyone who'll listen. He's building something."
"Then we burn it down before it's built."
"Your father wants to talk first. Diplomacy."
I laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Since when do we do diplomacy?"
"Since the last war cost us twelve men and three years of profit. He wants this handled quietly."
I looked at the blood on the floor. At the bodies being loaded into bags. At the faces of my men—angry, scared, waiting for me to tell them what came next.
Quietly.
Right.
"I'll talk to him."
---
I spent the rest of the day in meetings, on calls, planning responses I wasn't authorized to execute. By 5 PM, I was exhausted, frustrated, and desperately trying not to think about Sofia.
I failed.
I thought about the way she'd looked in the garden, winter light catching her hair. The way her eyes had fluttered closed when I kissed her. The way she'd said my name—not Matteo, not the enemy, but Antonio—like it meant something.
I wanted to hear her say it again.
I wanted to hear her say a lot of things.
At 5:30, I texted her.
Coming tonight?
Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Finally: Yes.
I smiled. Actually smiled. In the middle of a war meeting, surrounded by men waiting for orders, I smiled like an idiot because a woman texted me back.
Marco noticed. Of course he did.
"That her?"
"None of your business."
"It's definitely her." He grinned. "You've got it bad, boss."
"I've got nothing."
"Sure. That's why you've checked your phone seventeen times in the last hour."
I hadn't realized he was counting. I made a mental note to have him killed later.
"Finish the report," I said, standing. "I have somewhere to be."
"Hot date?"
"Marco."
"I'll take that as a yes."
---
SOFIA
I was rearranging the children's section when he walked in.
It was ridiculous how my heart jumped at the sight of him. Ridiculous and terrifying and completely beyond my control.
He looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes, tension in his shoulders, something heavy weighing on him. But when he saw me, some of it lifted.
"Long day?" I asked.
"You could say that."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No." He crossed to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed me like he'd been waiting all day to do it.
I melted into him. There was no other word for it. Every wall I'd built, every reservation I'd held, every voice in my head screaming he's the enemy—all of it dissolved the moment his lips met mine.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Hi," I managed.
"Hi."
"That was..."
"Yeah."
I laughed, giddy and terrified. "We should probably talk about this."
"Probably."
"Later?"
"Definitely later." He kissed me again, softer this time. "I brought dinner."
"You keep feeding me."
"You keep eating."
"It's a vicious cycle."
He smiled—that real smile I was starting to crave—and pulled a bag from behind him. Giuseppe's again.
"Come on," I said, taking his hand. "Let's eat. And you can tell me about your terrible day."
"You said I didn't have to."
"I lied."
He let me lead him to the table, and for the next hour, we ate and talked and pretended the world outside didn't exist. He told me about the warehouse, the Russians, the pressure from his father. I told him about Mrs. Delgado's grandson, who'd discovered graphic novels and now wouldn't read anything else. We argued about whether The Godfather was a masterpiece or overrated (he said masterpiece; I said overrated; we agreed to disagree).
Normal. It felt so painfully, beautifully normal.
Until he said, "Three days."
The words landed like stones.
"Three days until the wedding," I clarified.
"Three days until you're my wife."
I looked at him—at this man I'd known for weeks, this man who read Neruda and protected his mother's garden and kissed me like I was oxygen. This man who also killed people and ran an empire built on violence.
"Are you scared?" I asked.
"Terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of you waking up one day and realizing you made a mistake. Of you looking at me and seeing the monster instead of..." He trailed off.
"Instead of what?"
"Instead of this." He gestured between us. "Whatever this is."
I reached across the table and took his hand.
"I'm scared too," I admitted. "Scared of losing myself. Scared of becoming someone's possession instead of someone's partner. Scared of waking up in five years and not recognizing my own life."
"Then don't." He squeezed my hand. "Fight me. Argue with me. Remind me every day that you're not mine to control—you're mine to love. If you'll let me."
Love.
He'd said love.
The word hung between us, heavy with possibility.
"I don't know if I'm there yet," I whispered. "I don't know if I can be. Not after Derek. Not after everything."
"I know." He raised my hand to his lips, kissed my knuckles. "I'm not asking for forever tonight. I'm asking for tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. One day at a time, Sofia. That's all."
Tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them back.
"One day at a time," I repeated.
"That's all I need."
---
ANTONIO
I left at 10 PM, walking on air despite the exhaustion pulling at my bones.
She'd said yes. Not to forever—I wasn't stupid enough to think that—but to trying. To giving us a chance.
It was more than I deserved.
My phone buzzed as I reached the car. My father.
Come to the house. Now.
The warmth drained out of me.
Old Vito drove in silence. I spent the ride trying to prepare myself for whatever waited—more bad news about the Russians, pressure about the wedding, some new crisis requiring my attention.
I wasn't prepared for what I found.
My father stood in his study, staring out the window at the garden I'd shown Sofia. Behind him, on his desk, was a file.
Open.
With photographs of Sofia and me. At the bookstore. At Giuseppe's. In the garden.
Kissing.
"You want to explain this?" His voice was ice.
"It's not what it looks like."
"It looks like you've forgotten who you are." He turned to face me. "It looks like you're letting a woman distract you from everything that matters."
"She's not a distraction. She's—"
"She's a Bianchi." He slammed his hand on the desk. "She's the daughter of our enemy. The sister of a degenerate who nearly bankrupted his family. And you're out here playing house while the Russians move on our territory?"
"I'm aware of the Russians. I spent all day—"
"You spent all day thinking about her." He pointed at the photographs. "Don't lie to me, Antonio. I know you. I know that look."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to defend her, defend myself, defend whatever this was growing between us.
But he was right. I had been thinking about her. All day. Every day.
"You need to focus," my father said. "Three days until the wedding. After that, she's your wife. You can do whatever you want with her. But until then—"
"Until then, what?"
"Until then, you remember what's at stake." He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the weariness in his eyes. "I'm not your enemy, Antonio. I'm your father. I want you to have what I had with your mother. But that only works if you survive long enough to enjoy it."
"I'm not going to die."
"Everyone dies." He gripped my shoulder. "The question is whether you die for something worth dying for. Is she worth it?"
I thought of Sofia's laugh. Her sharp tongue. The way she'd kissed me in the garden like I was someone worth choosing.
"Yes," I said. "She is."
My father studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Then prove it. Handle the Russians. Marry the girl. Build something that lasts." He released my shoulder. "But if she breaks your heart, don't come crying to me."
"She won't."
"You don't know that."
"No," I agreed. "But I'm willing to find out."
---
SOFIA
I woke at 3 AM to a text from Antonio.
Can't sleep. Thinking about you.
I smiled in the darkness.
Can't sleep either. Thinking about you too.
His response came immediately: Three days.
I know.
Scared?
Terrified. You?
Terrified. But also...
Also what?
Also happy. For the first time in years.
I stared at the words, my heart pounding.
Me too, I typed. That scares me most of all.
Why?
Because if this goes wrong, I don't know how I'll survive it.
A long pause. Then:
Then we make sure it doesn't go wrong. Together.
I read the message three times. Then I saved it.
Together, I replied.
Goodnight, Sofia.
Goodnight, Antonio.
I fell asleep smiling.