After His Muse, I’m Engaged – I didn’t invite many people to my wedding, just a dozen or so friends and family for a meal together. No big ceremony, no long train on my dress, no shower of petals or champagne tower. I just wore an off-white satin slip dress, pinned my hair back with a pearl clip, got our license at the county clerk’s office, and then went with my husband Kieran to have a lively lunch with our people. My husband Kieran is so good to me, didn’t let me lift a finger the whole time. From the moment we left the house, he had me covered—stuffed bread and milk into my bag in case I got hungry, packed an extra coat in case I got cold, held my hand the whole way there and rubbed his thumb over my knuckles whenever I looked nervous. At the venue, he worked the room so I could just sit by the window and chat with my best friend Philippa. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows and caught on my wedding ring, throwing a tiny, soft flicker of light.
Philippa Moran got all emotional watching me get married. She took a sip of wine, leaned back in her chair, and looked at me for a long moment with something in her eyes I couldn’t quite name. She’s the one who walked through the last six years with me, so she knows better than anyone how those years went. “I thought you’d wait for Dante forever,” she said. Quiet, like she was talking to herself. I looked down and smiled, stirred my orange juice with the straw. “Yeah, me too.” That wasn’t a lie. There were a few years there when I really thought that was just my life—following Dante around, being his shadow, his backup plan, his “sweet, understanding” Nora who came when he called and left when he wanted. I thought I’d wait forever for him to finally look back at me, to make good on that promise about buying me a ring “within ten years.” But life doesn’t give a damn about what you thought would happen.
Philippa was quiet for a minute, then asked, low as anything: “Does Dante know you got married?” I shook my head. “No. He doesn’t need to.” She hesitated, like she’d been chewing on something for a while. “I heard he went crazy booking a flight last night. Flew back from the States.” I didn’t say anything. Rushing back like that—his girl must’ve run off on him again. I thought about that night a year ago. Ilyena got into some kind of fight with Dante and hopped on a plane to Europe without a second thought. Dante got off the phone with her, and his face went dark as a storm cloud. Pulled up his flight app right in front of me. The cold white light from his screen lit up his face as he tapped away without a second thought, booking a ticket for that same night. I was on my period that day, shivering under a blanket even though the heat was on, my lower belly cramping like someone had their fist around it.
I sat there shaking, looking at the cold edge of his jaw, and finally bit the bullet. “Dante,” I said, “can you please not go?” He looked up, those cool dark brown eyes of his, and the corner of his mouth curved up in that careless way he had. I knew that smile. It meant he thought I was saying something not worth taking seriously. “Stay put, babe,” he said, tipping my chin up with his fingers, running his thumb over my lips. Affectionate, but no real warmth. He pulled the blanket up higher around my freezing shoulders, talking to me like I was a kid. “You want a necklace? Bracelet?” I didn’t answer. Dante liked giving jewelry. He gave me so much—Van Cleef Alhambra, a Cartier Love bracelet, Bulgari Divas’ Dream earrings, a Tiffany bow brooch. Every piece came in a velvet box. Every piece cost a fortune. But never a ring. Not once. Ilyena Ivanova, though? He didn’t give her nearly as much stuff, maybe two or three times a year.
But every single time, it was a ring. I remember one birthday of hers, Dante spent a whole month shopping, must’ve looked at fifteen jewelry stores before he bought a two-carat pink diamond. I tied the velvet ribbon around that box myself, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not because I was cold. Because that ring was so beautiful it made my eyes hurt. I took a breath and looked at his face—lean, handsome, that pale, almost translucent skin, that jawline sharp as a blade. He was still gorgeous. But the feeling wasn’t there anymore. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” I asked again. The smile faded a little from his mouth. He patted my head, palm resting on my hair for just a second. It looked affectionate, but I knew what it really meant. Cut it out. “You know what this is,” he said. I froze. There was nothing to say. The thing with Dante and me? I chased him down. I’d just met him, and the first time I saw his face, I started crying—not because I liked him, but because he looked so much like Kieran.
So much I thought I was hallucinating. I worked hard for him. He’s the son of the current don of the Vitelli family, never had a shortage of people throwing themselves at him. I ran after him for a long time, ran so far and so fast that everybody knew me as “Dante’s little shadow.” He gave me one condition: no one could know about us, especially not Ilyena. Basically, I was a side piece. On call, no jealousy, no feelings, no demands. I had no right to stop him from going to Ilyena. Even after we moved in together, even when he got drunk and pulled me close and called me “wife,” even when he took me to the Vitelli family Christmas party. When Dante saw I’d stopped arguing, he leaned in and kissed my forehead. His lips were cool, light as a feather landing. “Good girl,” he said. “I’ll bring you something back.” I kept my head down. “When will you be back?” He stood up, buttoning his shirt slow and easy.
Buttons from the bottom up, one by one, no rush. “A few days.” He didn’t know it then, but his girl wasn’t just taking a trip to clear her head. She’d signed up for a year-long classical art course in Florence. And Dante stayed right there with her for the whole year. I watched his tall, straight back as he walked away and let out a breath. He must’ve felt my eyes on him, because he stopped after a few steps and turned around. The hallway lights blurred behind him, so I couldn’t quite read his face, but I heard him clear as day. “Before I go,” he said, “think of something you want me to do. Anything. I’ll make it happen.” I looked at his face and thought about it. “Can you find someone for me? His name is Kieran. Used to run around the Badlands.” Dante’s face went hard. His expression shifted from casual to something colder, more assessing. The Badlands is where gang wars happen. Not a lot of people walk out of there alive. “What’s he to you?” he asked. “Spit it out or I’m not helping.” I bit my lip. “My brother.
Aunt’s kid.” His face softened a little, but he still watched me for a few seconds, like he was trying to catch me in a lie. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll let you know.” He turned and walked away, dress shoes clicking on the marble floor, fading further and further. I watched his back disappear down the hall, then pulled an old photo from the deepest pocket of my wallet. The edges were soft and worn, but the picture was still clear. A lean, handsome man with high cheekbones, a straight nose, lips pressed together in a thin line. He looked so much like Dante it was almost funny. Same face shape, same presence, the kind that makes you look twice and can’t look away. I traced my thumb over his face in the photo, over and over, following the lines of his brows.
God, Dante was so forgetful. I’d told him I grew up in an orphanage. No aunts, no cousins. I’d told him there was an older boy there who looked after me—we grew up together, split one cup of noodles on freezing winter nights, crowded onto one narrow bed on rainy nights. But he never really listened. And he never once wondered why I loved looking at his face so much. Not because he was handsome. Because his face was the only reason I was still breathing.