Page 84 of The Mobster’s Mistress

I offered to replace the damn thing when she moved in. She told me the couch had survived eleven years, two apartments, and five cats, and it wasn't going anywhere.

So I had the movers bring it upstairs.

A year ago, I would've considered that ridiculous. These days, I sit on that couch with my woman curled against me while we argue over which character in her latest murder mystery deserves to die first.

And I wouldn't change a goddamn thing.

Because Bridget lives here.

My beautiful, smart-mouthed librarian still goes to work every morning. She loves her job, and despite the fact that I could make sure she never has to work another day in her life, I've learned better than to suggest she give it up.

When she decided to move in, I asked what she wanted instead of arranging everything myself. She chose the timing, brought her furniture, and made it clear that sharing my home didn't mean surrendering her independence.

I still have opinions. Plenty of them. But I've discovered that a woman is far more likely to listen when I treat her like a partner instead of issuing orders.

Who fucking knew?

It's been a year since Valentina had Bridget kidnapped, and there are nights when I still wake up remembering that warehouse. The gun against Bridget's head. The sound of it firing. The terrible few seconds when I didn't know whether she was alive.

I nearly lost the best thing that ever happened to me because I was too much of a selfish bastard to tell her the truth.

I don't intend to make that mistake again.

The divorce was finalized months ago. Valentina eventually pleaded guilty to charges stemming from the kidnapping and her demands for money, and the man who sold her access to Bridget's apartment was identified during the investigation. Bridget was officially cleared in the stabbing, with investigators concluding that she'd acted in self-defense against an intruder.

It doesn't erase what happened, but Bridget no longer has to wonder whether she'll be arrested for protecting herself in her own home.

And Valentina is no longer part of our lives.

Bridget and I have had our share of difficult conversations since then. Some of them have ended with her telling me to stop acting like a controlling asshole, and some have ended with me admitting she's right.

I'm getting better at that second part.

Tonight, however, I'm hoping she'll agree with me about something considerably more important.

She's standing in front of the bedroom mirror when I find her, adjusting the emerald-green dress I bought during our first few weeks together.

"You're staring, Lorenzo."