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My skin was so red and blotchy Rudolph would have been impressed, the bruises under my eyes were dark enough to traumatise small children and my hair was a mess even a crow wouldn’t want to nest in.

‘Take a good look, you clueless idiot. Because that’s what self-pity looks like…’ I murmured.

I’d been here before, when our mum had let us down. And I’d fallen completely to pieces. But I’d been twelve then, and a child. I was a woman now. Or at least I’d kidded myself I was one two days ago.

I’d made the stupid decision to marry a man I didn’t really know—to fall hopelessly in love with him, too. Because unfortunately, even now, even knowing what a cynical, ruthless, manipulative, unreconstructed arsehole Dante could be, I’d missed having his arms around me last night.

How pathetic was that?

But then I remembered the shock on his face when I’d wanted to slap him—and I found myself clinging to one small shred of hope.

He hadn’t expected me to fight back. He’d simply expected me to accept that this marriage was going to be conducted on his terms.

‘Your love is wasted on me…’

Those words came back to me, too. The words he’d said in the heat of the moment, which had hurt the most. I’d thought at the time, because I was in so much pain, that he’d been throwing my love for him back at me… But could that phrasing tell a different story?

As I ran my fingers through my bird’s nest and found the strength to climb off the bed, I couldn’t help wondering—had he actually been telling me he didn’t want my love, or was that just all my old insecurities talking?

What if he had really been telling me he didn’t deserve it?

It was a tenuous hope at best. But it was all I had.

The truth was, I’d married a man I didn’t know nearly enough about. Mostly because he’d refused to communicate with me—which was totally on him and no way was I letting him off the hook for that… But… From what I did know about Dante—that he’d led an extremely violent life and had been forced to survive on his own since the age of eight—I knew he’d had a much tougher and more insecure childhood than I’d had, and mine hadn’t exactly been a bed of roses.

The one thing I’d always had, though, was Mia, to lean on, to support me, to look out for me and to love me. And Dante had had no one.

Was it any surprise he was determined to be emotionally self-sufficient? That he didn’t think he needed love?

Obviously, he was a much more complex man than I had given him credit for, with layers I’d only begun to scratch the surface of. But why should I feel so powerless, if I wasn’t the one who was scared to let anyone see beneath those layers?

I’d concluded during my night-long crying jag that he’d manipulated me into this marriage, that he’d never really let me past the shield he kept around his emotions. As a result, I had no real clue about his motivations, his wants and needs, either.

But communication was key to any marriage. Any relationship really. And by agreeing to marry me, he’d given me a chance to get to know him. And now I had to be brave enough and tenacious enough to make the most of it.

Dante’s superpower was sex—it was the only way he had allowed himself to be intimate with me… But mine was my compassion, my empathy—and my ability to talk about my feelings until the cows came home and died of old age.

As I stood at the window and stared into the park in the cold light of a new day, I had to believe I hadn’t been completely wrong about him. He’d been a dictatorial asshole last night, but also stunned by how hurt I’d been.

Then I had a vision of his gaze meeting mine, when I’d been walking down the aisle in the small chapel on Isla Donna on our wedding day. In his eyes I’d seen not just the glitter of approval, of need, but also a flash of vulnerability… Before he could mask it.

I’d romanticised that look, simplified it. But I hadn’t completely imagined it.

And whatever that look meant, it was obvious Dante was even less well equipped to figure it out than I was.

I walked through the adjoining dressing room and eased open the connecting door to our bedroom. Dante lay spread-eagled across the bed on his stomach, one arm flung over a mound of pillows. The sheet rode low on his hips. My gaze roamed over the scars and tattoos on his muscular back, to locate the healing wound from the bullet he’d taken instead of me.

My heart pulsed heavily in my throat. I swallowed it down ruthlessly.

Romanticising him and his behaviour had been my first mistake. My second was being passive, immature, and easily dazzled… I’d known Dante was a hard man, maybe even a damaged man—I mean, he’d kidnapped me, for God’s sake—but I’d still believed, in my naïveté, I just had to be me and he just had to want me for everything to be wonderful.

Life and love had always been more complicated than that. I, of all people, ought to have learnt that lesson as a girl, but I hadn’t because Mia had been there to shield me from the harsh realities of life. Well, there wasn’t anything more real or raw than ending up in an arranged marriage to a Mafia don! And this time I was on my own.

I let out an unsteady breath and slipped back into the dressing room, closing the door quietly behind me. Rummaging through the drawers, I found my running gear and tugged it on with trembling fingers.

Unlocking the window of the bathroom attached to the guest bedroom, I climbed out onto the fire escape. It was still early, the scent of spring blossoms from the park and garbage from the alleyway below scenting the air. I could hear the rumble of traffic on Fifth, punctuated by shouts and car horns. It all felt so normal… And yet also new and different and exciting, because this was New York.

After slipping through the back gate, I stuffed my earbuds in and turned the volume up on my running playlist. As I headed down Fifth Avenue, I felt new and different too. I was still shattered and heartsore, emotionally drained and scared—because what if there wasn’t anything to salvage in our relationship?