Page 105 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
She is glowing.
That is the first thought that crosses my mind when I see Rosalina descending the stairs in the soft afternoon light filtering through the front windows. She is wearing one of my t-shirts—oversized and hanging off one shoulder—and a pair of shorts, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looks absolutely radiant.
Pregnant.
The word keeps echoing in my head, settling deeper each time, becoming more real. Rosalina is pregnant. With my baby or Dante's baby or Gabriel's baby, and it doesn’t matter whose because she is ours and the baby is ours and everything about this is ours.
"Ready?" I ask, and my voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods, her hand instinctively moving to her still-flat stomach in a gesture I have noticed her doing more frequently since last night. "Where are we going again?"
"Surprise." I offer her my arm, grinning when she rolls her eyes but takes it anyway. "Trust me, Fiorella. You are going to love it."
"That is what you said before you took me shopping and got us kicked out of a fitting room," she points out, but there is amusement in her voice.
"We were not kicked out. We were politely asked to leave. There is a difference."
"Semantics."
I help her into the car, my hand lingering on her lower back longer than necessary, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of my shirt. God, she is beautiful. She has always been beautiful—from the moment I first saw her walking down that aisle in a wedding dress meant for someone else, fierce and defiant and absolutely captivating.
But now, knowing she is carrying our child, she is devastating.
I cannot stop looking at her as I slide into the driver's seat. The curve of her jaw. The way her lips are slightly parted as she stares out the window. The delicate line of her throat that I want to put my mouth on. The soft swell of her breasts beneath my t-shirt that seem fuller than they were a week ago, or maybe I am just noticing more now.
Everything about her is more. More beautiful, more precious, more mine.
Ours, I correct myself. More ours.
"Luca," she says, and I realize I have been staring at her instead of starting the car. "Are you okay?"
"Perfect," I tell her honestly. "Just—you look beautiful today."
She laughs, glancing down at herself. "I am wearing your old t-shirt and no makeup."
"Exactly." I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trail down her neck. "Beautiful."
The drive takes twenty minutes, and I spend most of it sneaking glances at her when I should be watching the road. The way the sunlight catches in her hair. The way she bites her bottom lip when she is thinking. The way her hand keeps returning to her stomach like she is checking to make sure the baby is still there, still real.
I want to put my hand there too. Want to feel where our child is growing. Want to press my palm against her skin and imagine the tiny life taking shape inside her.
Later, I promise myself. There will be time for that later.
The spa is tucked away on a quiet street in the West Village, unassuming from the outside but luxurious within. I called ahead this morning while Rosalina was still sleeping, booked the entire place for the afternoon so we would have complete privacy.
She needs this. Needs to relax, to be pampered, to forget about Patrick and bombs and impossible choices for a few hours. Needs to just exist as Rosalina—my Rosalina—instead of someone carrying the weight of the world.
"A spa?" she asks as I help her out of the car, and there is surprise in her voice. "You brought me to a spa?"
"You have been through hell," I say simply, guiding her toward the entrance with my hand on her lower back. "You deserve to be taken care of."
The owner—a small Japanese woman named Akiko who owes Dante a favor—greets us with a bow and leads us through the tranquil space. Everything is designed for serenity—soft lighting, the sound of water trickling somewhere, the smell of eucalyptus and lavender in the air.
"We have prepared the private suite as requested," Akiko says, opening a door at the end of a hallway. "Everything you need is inside. Take as much time as you wish."
The room is perfect. A large soaking tub dominates one corner, already filled with steaming water and scattered with rose petals. Candles flicker on every surface, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Plush robes hang on hooks, and a small table holds tea and fruit and other refreshments.
"Luca," Rosalina breathes, turning to look at me with wide eyes. "This is?—"
