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Regardless of what I was born into, I’d always thought of myself as a moral and honest person. Maybe my roots were too deep, or maybe love gave a woman a reason to let her dark colors shine, because I suddenly knew I would lie, cheat, and steal for this man.
I would burn the world for him. He was King of the Cosa Nostra. And he was all mine.
She had a long way to go to be a Russo, but hell, I’d walk with her the whole way.
Happiness filled my chest like a balloon, and I wondered if you could love someone so much you’d burst.
For the first time in my life, I felt free to be me. To curse if I wanted, to keep my smiles for who deserved them, to be bad at something, to fall in love.
Nico didn’t treat me like glass. He shattered the reflection of an empty life staring back at me. He taught me how to soar.
And from that moment on, I called him Ace whenever I was drunk, Nicolas when I was mad, and Nico all the times in between.
I’d always imagined love as a concept—a genuine smile, a couple holding hands, a life partner. Now, I knew it was more dimensional; a maddening, possessive, and overwhelming presence that bloomed in your chest, with the power to make you feel so alive or shatter you to pieces.
Whiskey and flame. Sleepless nights. Tattooed skin, white t-shirts, and rough hands. Love and lust and happiness. He was everything.
His mamma might not have been a good parent, but without her he wouldn’t exist, and without Nico—and the way he was looking at me—well, that wasn’t a world I wanted to be in.
“I love you,” I breathed. His gaze burned around the edges, as the mantra of my pulse filled the space between us. Love me too. Love me forever. He stepped forward until his tux brushed my dress, slid his hand to my nape, and pressed his words to my ear. “And I love you, Elena Russo.”
Nico might have been a bad man, but where he lacked in morals, he more than made up for as a husband. He loved me forever.
