Quinnu V Petro

My husband pressed a gun into another woman's hand—on our first anniversary—and told her to shoot me if I ever spoke to her like that again. I stood frozen in our marble foyer, three weeks pregnant with his child he didn't know about, still holding the anniversary cake I'd baked myself. The woman was Bianca. His first love. The capo's daughter who'd vanished four years ago to marry into a rival family, then crawled back to him last month with a bruised cheek and a tragic story. "She's in danger, Aria," Dante had told me the night he moved her into the east wing. "Her husband beats her. I owe her my protection. I'm the reason she left the family in the first place." That was always his answer. He owed her. He'd hurt her. She suffered because of him. What about me? I had married Dante Moretti through a blood alliance between our families—my father's debt paid in my body and my name. No proposal. No love. Just my hand placed in his by a priest who looked terrified of him. But God help me, I had tried. One year of running his estate like a fortress. One year of memorizing the names of every soldier, every enemy, every threat. One year of sleeping beside a man who killed without flinching but had started, somewhere along the way, to hold me at night like I was something worth keeping. I thought we were building something. The way he'd taught me to load a pistol with his hands over mine. The way he left espresso on my nightstand before dawn meetings. The way he'd kissed my shoulder once and called me moglie—wife—like it meant more than ink on a contract. Then Bianca came back, and everything I thought we had turned to ash. Tonight was supposed to be ours. Dante had promised. A private dinner on the terrace, just us, away from the family, away from the war. I had cooked for six hours. New dress. The pearl earrings he gave me at our wedding. When I came downstairs, Dante was already in the foyer—standing close to Bianca, his hand on her waist, the two of them laughing at something I'd never hear. "Dante? The terrace is ready—" "Change of plans." He didn't look at me. "Bianca got a threat from her husband's men today. She's shaken. I'm taking her to the safe house personally." "But tonight was—" "It can wait." He finally glanced at me. Annoyed. "You'll survive one night, Aria. She might not." Bianca peeked from behind his shoulder, her eyes glassy with practiced tears. "I'm so sorry, Aria. I told him not to ruin your evening. I can stay—" "No," Dante said, sharp. "You're coming with me where I can protect you." Then he did it. He pressed his backup pistol into her trembling hand and folded her fingers around it. "Anyone touches you, you pull this trigger. And if she—" his eyes flicked to me, cold "—ever makes you feel unwelcome in my home again, you point it at her instead." The door closed behind them. The house went silent. I stood there in my new dress, anniversary cake melting in my hands, one palm pressed flat against my stomach. I had planned to tell him about the baby tonight. Now I wasn't sure I'd live long enough to.