No One Waits Forever

"Bianca, has something upset you lately?"

Papa's familiar, worried voice came through the line.

My nose stung. I nearly let the tears fall.

"Nothing, Papa. I just miss home a little. The Sicilian sun is much warmer than New York."

Papa gave a soft laugh, and the tension in his voice eased.

"My principessa has finally tired of the outside world. Come home soon — I miss you too."

He paused, then came to the point:

"So when will you return to Sicily? "

" I'll wrap things up here and come back as soon as I can."

"All right."

He hesitated. "Do you want to invite Vito Carlisi? I heard you two are neighbors."

I bowed my head and swallowed the ache rising behind my eyes.

"Don't invite him. Once I leave New York, I won't be seeing him again."

After I hung up, I sank back against the sofa, drained of everything.

To the world, my life and Vito's would never intersect.

He is the heir of the Carlisi family, ruthless and feared by all people.

I am the principessa of the Rossi family, cherished and adored, living in sunlight and flowers.

Until five years ago, when he was injured protecting me.

After that, we fell in love.

He said he had too many enemies. If anyone ever learned he cared for me, I would become a target.

I stared at the wall of photographs.

They were taken before Sia ever appeared — pictures of him with me, his eyes full of nothing but me.

On the coffee table sat a small black velvet box. Inside was a pair of custom cufflinks I had made for our fifth anniversary, engraved with our initials.

Looking at it now, I felt it seemed like a joke.

Just then, a sound came from the entrance.

I shoved the box into a drawer.

When I looked up, I met Vito's deep, smiling eyes.

He tugged his tie loose with one hand, tossed his bespoke jacket onto the sofa without looking, and crossed the room in long, unhurried strides. His tall frame blocked out the light.

"What are you doing? You didn't even notice me come in."

I turned away, my voice flat and dry.

"I was on the phone with Papa."

He didn't catch anything wrong.

There was a touch of weariness in his expression as he pressed me back into the leather sofa, his knee against my legs, leaving me nowhere to retreat.

"What were you two talking about? Your eyes are red."

His long fingers traced lightly along my jaw, tilting my face up toward his.

The next moment, breath warm with mint and tobacco spilled across my lips — bold, unhurried, moving over my mouth as though it had owned the place.

I tried to push him away. He caught my hand and guided it toward his waist.

In the struggle, his collar shifted open.

The scent of roses clung to his skin — a perfume I had never worn.

Something caught the wound on my leg — it tore open again, sharp and sudden.

Tears rolled down before I could stop them.

Seeing me cry, Vito went still.

His gaze dropped to my shin, to the bruises and dried blood, and his brow pulled tight.

"How did this happen? How did you get so hurt? Why didn't you call me?"

He seemed to have entirely forgotten that I had been injured at the party.

I said nothing. I didn't know whether to remind him — to pull back the curtain on the tenderness he had been performing.

"Be good. Stop crying. Let me get the first-aid kit."

He pressed a kiss to my forehead and stood.

"You're really not good at taking care of yourself. What would you do without me?"

I didn't answer. I just watched his back as he walked away.

He had probably forgotten: I was the proud principessa of the Rossi family.

Vito — soon enough, you'll see exactly how brilliantly I shine without you.