Page 113 of Lorenzo

Emily throws her arms around me again.

For the first time in our lives, the future is ours.

EPILOGUE: CAPRI

EMILY

“Lorenzo, this hotel is so opulent!”

We stand in the opulent lobby of our exclusive cliffside hotel perched high above the glittering Mediterranean in Capri.

The warm Italian sun wraps around us as a gentle sea breeze cools my flushed skin.

Though Lorenzo and I wear chic, lightweight clothing to suit the Italian weather, the front desk man wears a dark, very formal suit.

Man, he must be hot in that weather, I think to myself. Yet he greets us with perfect professionalism.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Ricci,” he says smoothly, extending his pen toward Lorenzo.

I watch my husband sign the register with that commanding confidence that still makes my heart race after weeks of marriage.

He’s so gorgeous. I can hardly believe that I resisted him for so long …

And on that first night, even put up a ‘wall of pillows.’

“Ready, wife?”

Flashing a smile at Lorenzo, I’m hardly able to believe this gorgeous man is truly mine.

I catch a glimpse of us standing together in the mirror, Lorenzo, with his dark good looks, and me with my auburn hair in my strict French twist.

Whether we are in the glittering streets of Manhattan or here in his ancestral Italy, Lorenzo always looks in control and somehow, superhuman with his intense dark looks.

And something about Capri brings out the full Italian fire in him. His skin, always attractively tanned, seems even more touched by the sun now, glowing golden against the crisp white shirt that clings to his powerful frame.

He looks like a living advertisement for luxury, for danger, for everything I have come to crave.

The concierge turns to smile at us.

“I will have you shown to your room right now.”

He slaps his palm against a little old-fashioned bell. The kind you see in classic black-and-white movies.

Within seconds, one of the smartly dressed staffers appears.

“Your luggage has already been transferred to the suite,” the man says, clicking his heels together smartly. “Please follow me.”

Before we leave the lobby, a woman in the same uniform, tailored perfectly to accentuate her curves, approaches us holding a tray of sparkling wine.

“Good afternoon. May I offer you some wine from our premium sparkling region, Franciacorta?” she asks with a warm smile.

Her eyes linger a little too long on Lorenzo for my taste.

A sharp pang of jealousy twists in my chest.

“Yes, thank you,” I say rather smartly, despite myself.

Some girls handle beautiful women around their husbands with ease, I think to myself.