Page 58 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"Come on," he says, and we walk out together, leaving the stunned silence behind us.
We make it through the dining room, down the hallway, past the formal sitting room where family members are frozen mid-conversation, staring at us with wide eyes. Dante's hand grips mine so tightly it almost hurts, but I do not complain, just try to keep up with his long strides as he pulls me toward the entrance.
The front door looms ahead, and then we are through it, bursting out into the cool evening air.
The moment the door closes behind us, Dante stops.
We are standing on the front steps of the Salvatore estate, the car waiting at the bottom of the driveway, the compound stretching out around us in imposing stone and iron, and Dante just—stops.
He turns to face me, his chest heaving, his eyes wild and bright, and for a moment I think he is going to yell, going to unleash all the fury I saw building at that dinner table.
But he does not yell.
He kisses me.
One moment I am standing there bracing myself for his anger, and the next his mouth is on mine, hot and hungry and desperate. His hands cup my face, tilting my head back, and he kisses me like I am air and he has been drowning, like I am the only thing keeping him alive, like nothing else in the world exists except this moment on these steps.
I make a surprised sound against his mouth, but then I am kissing him back just as desperately, my hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer, trying to get as much contact as possible.
The stone steps are cold beneath my feet, the evening air is cool against my skin, and I can hear voices rising from inside the house—probably the family reacting to what just happened—butnone of it matters because Dante is kissing me like I just saved his life.
When he finally pulls back, we are both breathing hard, and his forehead rests against mine, his hands still cradling my face like I am something precious.
"Thank you," he breathes, and his voice is rough with emotion, scraped raw. "Thank you."
"For what?" I ask, still dazed from the kiss, my lips tingling, my heart racing.
"For defending me. For standing up to him." His thumbs stroke my cheekbones, the gesture gentle despite the intensity in his eyes, despite the way his hands are trembling slightly. "No one has ever done that before."
"Dante—"
"I thought you would be perfect tonight," he continues, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that steals my breath, his voice low and urgent. "And you were. You were absolutely perfect. You said all the right things, you played the part flawlessly, you made my mother fall in love with you in under five minutes."
I can feel heat creeping up my neck at the praise, at the way he is looking at me like I hung the moon.
"But then you were also brave and fierce and willing to risk everything to defend me," he says, and there is wonder in his voice now, like he cannot quite believe what happened, like he is still processing it. "You stood up to the Don. To my father. You called him out in front of the entire family."
"I probably just made everything worse," I say, reality crashing back in as I hear footsteps inside the house, voices getting louder. "I should have stayed quiet. I should have?—"
"No." He cuts me off with another kiss, harder this time, more insistent, his fingers threading through my hair and dislodging my careful bun. When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing. "No, Rosalina. You were perfect. You were exactly what I needed."
He kisses me again, softer this time, slower, and when he pulls back there is something in his eyes I have never seen before—something warm and vulnerable and almost reverent.
"You are incredible," he murmurs against my lips, his breath warm on my skin. "Do you know that? You are absolutely incredible."
"I just started a war with your father," I point out weakly, glancing back at the door behind us, half-expecting it to burst open.
"Good." He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, the corner of my mouth, punctuating each word with his lips like he cannot stop touching me, like he needs the contact to believe this is real. "Let him be angry. Let him think whatever he wants. You stood up for me, Rosalina. You chose me over making a good impression, and that?—"
His voice cracks slightly, and he just pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me and holding me against his chest like I am something precious, like I am the answer to a question he has been asking his entire life.
I rest my head against his shoulder, feeling his heart racing beneath my cheek, feeling the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he holds me there on the steps of his father's house.
"Your mother is going to kill me," I mumble against his shirt.
He laughs—actually laughs, the sound rough but genuine, vibrating through his chest. "My mother loved you. Did you not see her face when you were defending me? She looked ready to applaud."
"Really?"
