Page 13 of Dante

Now, Dante’s daughter will have to buy hers at a shop, like every other bride.

In the shower, I cleanse my body with a rose-scented body wash. I feel a tender ache when I lather between my thighs.

Sore, yes, but I smile as I remember that moment he claimed me.

When I run soap over my hip, I wince and look down.

A bruise blooms where his hand gripped me. Four faint marks in the shape of his fingertips, or so I imagine. I press it gently and feel him through the soreness, like he’s still there under my skin.

I get out of the shower and dry myself with a heated fluffy towel. Then I shrug the towel off and look at my naked body in the full-length mirror.

A smaller mark sits high on my breast where his mouth had been. I brush my thumb across it. It pulses back at me.

Dante claimed my body last night as his and his alone. As if I were a priceless possession.

But where is Dante now? His own bedroom? The sacred place he warned me not to enter?

Is this the way it’s going to be for the rest of our married lives?

As I wrap myself in towels and back out into the bedroom, my phone pings. It’s a text from Alice. In it, a smirking emoji and a big question mark are followed by, Details, please!

I text her that we’ll talk later and quickly get ready for my day. As I pick through my suitcase, I realize I haven’t packed much. Mostly jeans and T-shirts.

Mom said something about buying clothes once I got to New York, but what kind of clothes? Where will I be going?

The scent of brewing coffee wafts towards me. Is Dante up and making coffee for me?

As I walk out to the living room, the Manhattan view mesmerizes me at once. It’s even more spectacular in daylight.

Yet what I didn’t notice last night are all the pictures of Dante’s late wife, Mary.

I’ve only seen her once during that harvest party night so many years ago. But who else could the woman in the silver frames be?

Her image is everywhere. On the mantel above the fireplace, behind the sofa, on the bookshelf.

I step closer to examine the photos. She’s attractive, I’ll give her that, though her looks are not conventional.

She resembles a modern day vampire more than anything else, with long, jet-black hair and a statuesque physique.

Her vibrant red lips even make her look like she’s feasted on fresh blood.

But that’s not what draws me in. Even in a photo, she radiates a magnetic charisma that’s impossible to miss.

I force myself to turn away.

When I reach the kitchen, I find Ciro behind the counter. He’s dressed in a sleek navy suit similar to what he wore last night.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ricci.”

I nearly look behind me. Then I remember I’m Mrs. Ricci.

“Good morning, Ciro,” I say, jumping up a bit to reach the tall seat at the island.

“I have coffee for you,” he says. “And what may I make you for breakfast?”

I accept the coffee with gratitude. “Are you the cook, too?”

He chuckles. “Mr. Ricci employs both a housekeeper and the occasional personal chef.”