“Mr. Visconti, Mrs. Visconti,” she says, nodding at us politely. She makes more pleasantries but they swim around my ears, wobbly and incoherent. Mrs. Visconti? As Rafe’s hand finds my back again and guides me to a table, I glare up at his profile. “Why does she think we’re married?” His dimple deepens. “Because I told her we were.”
