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She helps me upstairs and all but undresses me, and I whine, pulling her into the bed before she can get her dress unzipped.
Mia laughs and manages to wiggle out of her dress, but this time, I’m not interested in her body. This time, I’m only interested in her warmth, her murmured words of comfort.
I sleep next to her, and for the first time in my life, let a woman that isn’t my mother comfort me. I suppose I need it, after losing my father and making a plan to avenge him.
I haven’t had time to grieve, and Mia is letting me do that.
It might be more difficult than I thought not to let her in.
8
MIA
It already feels like I’m married to Dante by the time Saturday, the day before the wedding, rolls around. We’ve spent every minute together that he isn’t working, and I’m happy as a clam.
Until, that is, I hear Dante in his office, speaking lowly into the phone.
“I’m not that kind of guy anymore,” he says in a murmur, and then he chuckles low in his throat. “And of course I remember.”
I frown, getting closer to the office door, and I swear I can hear a woman’s voice on the line.
“No, of course not. I barely remember the day of the shootout,” he says, and my heart drops to my feet.
Dante saved my life. It’s a crucial moment in my life, one that I come back to all the time when I feel unsure about Dante’s love, when I feel unsure about this marriage.
Who is he talking to?
Dante gets closer to the door, shutting it, and my heart flips over in my chest, anxiety rushing over me.
I head back to my room, all kind of awful thoughts swirling in my head.
Is he already having an affair? Before we even officially get married?
He’d given me his mother’s ring, for God’s sake. I look at it, frowning. Surely, he’s just talking about work.
But why would he bring up the shootout?
While I’m trying to get through my emotions, Dante knocks on the door.
“Mia?”
“We’re not supposed to see each other before the wedding,” I call in a strained voice.
Dante pauses and then tries the door. I’ve locked it.
“Mia, come on. You’re the one who said you weren’t traditional.”
“I’m traditional about this!” I insist, and Dante chuckles.
“All right, fair enough. I’m going out for a few hours.”
Going out. Of course he was.
“I’m staying at my friend Marta’s for the night,” I call back.
Dante pauses again. “What?”
“Tradition,” I remind him, and Dante groans.
