I cup her cheek. I love this woman so much. “Damn right, Peaches.”
She leans into my touch and closes her eyes.
“You excited?” I whisper.
“More than words can describe.”
That afternoon, we pack up our few belongings, hop into a car Orrin lets me borrow, and drive to a hotel. On our way over, Dem messages to confirm the plane is picking us up tomorrow morning.
Soon, we’ll be heading to Italy, and I can’t fucking wait.
“You know, I wouldn’t have minded staying in the studio one more night,” Gemma says, taking a sip of her tea. She seems to be on a tea kick. I wonder if it’s the pregnancy hormones, and what else they’ll make her crave. Hopefully, it’s not some miserable American food, although if I have to, I’ll send a damn plane here every week to get her whatever she needs.
“The place was awful, Peaches. And I spent some long, depressing days there. I’d much rather check you into the presidential suite and have you beneath me on one thousand thread count sheets.” I want to spoil this girl in every fucking way. I don’t think she realizes it yet. “Let’s go somewhere nice for breakfast afterwards.”
We end up making use of the presidential suite for about two hours before we remember the food, but Gemma doesn’t seem to mind the delay after I make her come three times. Her cheeks are rosy, and her lips a bit swollen when we step back outside.
She gasps. “It’s warm out!”
Warm is a bit of a stretch, but at least I’m not rushing to zip up my jacket as soon as the air hits my body. I look up. There aren’t any clouds in the sky for what must be the first fucking time since I got here.
I lean down and press a kiss to her cheek. She looks so happy. I take out my phone and snap a photo of her.
She notices. “What’s that for?”
“Need a new background picture for my phone.”
Gemma grins. “God, you’re such a sap. Who are you, and what happened to the mean Camorrista?”
“Mean?” I grumble. “I was never mean to you,” I say as I give her ass a firm smack.
She yelps. “Forgetful too.” She slides her hand into mine and squeezes.
I brush her hair out of her face, my chest swelling with a love so strong that I know I’ll do anything for this woman. “Let’s leave the past in the past,” I tell her. “We’ve got a whole future to look forward to.”
She smiles at me like she likes that idea as much as I do.
EPILOGUE
GEMMA
I can’t sleep.
The bed is so warm and cozy with Ras passed out right beside me, but I’ve been tossing and turning for the past hour, unable to get back to sleep.
Maybe it’s time to accept it and embrace the new day.
I climb out from beneath the covers, careful not to make too much noise even though Ras is a deep sleeper. Sometimes, he’ll pull me into his chest while he’s dreaming, clutching me so tightly against his radiator chest that I start to overheat, and I have to tickle him to get him to wake up.
I glance at him, admiring his relaxed features, and the way his long hair spills over the sheets.
My lover is a beautiful man.
Yes, I’ve been calling him my lover in my head because boyfriend feels inadequate, and partner seems too vague. He’s dropped many hints he’d like to be called “husband” sooner rather than later, and every time he does it a firework pops inside my chest.
I’d like that too. So much.
But I think we’d better wait until after we have our baby. Turns out planning for a kid is way more work than planning for a wedding.
I grab my silk robe off the hook, slip inside of it, and quietly shut the bedroom door behind me.
The nursery’s a work in progress. I peek inside on my way to the kitchen. Last week, we had the wallpaper hung. Ras and I decided we wanted to keep the gender a surprise, so we went for a pattern with animals. In the corner, there’s a box with the crib. Ras insisted he wanted to assemble it himself, even if the delivery included assembly. He seems to like getting hands on with things.
He's going to be a great dad.
I leave the nursery and move toward the living room.
“Good morning! Good morning!”
Churro’s already wide awake in his cage in the corner of the room. I’ve spent some time teaching him a few new words, but it doesn’t take him long to revert to old favorites. When I get closer, he squawks, “Pretty girl! Pretty girl!”
“Thanks, bud,” I say to him as I head past him to the kitchen to make myself some tea.
While the kettle is boiling, I sit on one of the barstools by the island. My gaze catches on a big brown envelope addressed to me.
Huh. Must have arrived this morning.
Carefully, I pry it open, unsure of what’s inside.
It’s Cleo’s wedding photos.
A weird feeling materializes inside my chest at seeing them.
Naturally, Ras and I weren’t invited to attend. We were here when my sister walked down the aisle toward the man I was supposed to marry.
I thumb through the five or six pictures. Cleo looks beautiful, if not a little stiff. In most of the photos she keeps at least a few inches away from Rafaele, who’s severe and handsome in his tux. They could be a royal couple given the amount of jewels Cleo is wearing. She must have been happy about that, at least.
The last photo is different. It’s a candid shot, captured by the photographer while the couple is unaware, and you can practically feel the tension between these two. Cleo’s got her nose upturned, looking down at Rafaele while he’s sitting down at their sweetheart table, and he’s looking up at her, his eyes hooded and his lips slightly quirked. He’s grasping her hand in his, like he’s trying to stop her from leaving.
A smile tugs at my lips. I should give Cleo a call and see how they’re doing.
The kettle starts making a noise, so I leave the photos and go make myself a cup of tea.
Ras and I have settled into a routine here quicker than I expected. Since Casale di Principe is the base of the Casalesi, Ras is able to do most of his work without leaving on too many overnight trips. We’ve gone to Ibiza a few times to check up on things there but I always enjoy those trips, especially when Damiano and Vale join us.
Today, they’re coming over for lunch.
As excited as Ras is about the baby, my sister might be the most excited of the bunch. Whatever rift I felt between us earlier has all but disappeared.
She’s my confidant once again. I might be far away from the rest of the Garzolos, but between her and Ras I have plenty of support.
Ras and I have gone into Naples or Napoli as they say here on more than a few occasions. The city is full of sunshine and raw, unbridled energy. I had no idea the populace worships a soccer player as their god. Images of Diego “Dios” Maradona are graffitied on the walls, hung on banners between the narrow streets of the Spanish Quarter, and worn on T-shirts of seemingly every other Napolitani. I’ve even seen a few altars to his name.
And the food, oh God, the food. I thought I was spoiled growing up in New York, but the food in Naples has brought tears to my eyes on a few occasions. Perhaps it’s the pregnancy hormones and the fact that I can eat what I want without anyone offering their criticism. My favorite is a sugar-powder covered pastry filled with ricotta cream called Fiocchi di Neve. I’m convinced it’s impossible to eat just one.