Page 87 of The Mobster’s Mistress

Turns out, I didn't know what the fuck I was missing.

***

SIX WEEKS LATER

I've never been nervous about signing my name to anything.

I've put my signature on contracts worth millions, made decisions that changed people's lives, and stared down men who would've loved to see me hesitate.

But standing in my own home, waiting for Bridget to walk toward me in a white dress, my hands are actually fucking shaking.

Elise is crying before the ceremony even starts. Nico keeps handing her tissues while pretending he isn't getting emotional himself. Bridget's mother has been crying since she arrived, although from what I've heard about her attempts to marry off her daughter, those might be tears of relief. Dario stands nearby, looking far too amused by my current predicament.

Then Bridget appears.

She's beautiful. Not because of the dress or the flowers in her hair, but because she's smiling at me like she can't imagine being anywhere else.

I feel the same damn way.

We keep the wedding small, just the people closest to us and a civil officiant who manages to finish the ceremony despite Sir Pounce deciding the aisle belongs to him.

When it's time for our vows, I take Bridget's hands.

"I promise to love you, to tell you the truth even when it's difficult, and to remember that you're my partner, not somebody I get to make decisions for."

Her eyes shine as she squeezes my fingers.

"And I promise to love you, call you on your bullshit, and remind you that being the boss at work doesn't mean you're the boss of me."

Everybody laughs.

I grin. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

"Liar," she whispers affectionately.

We exchange rings.

The officiant pronounces us husband and wife, and I kiss Bridget until somebody behind us starts clapping.

I've never wanted anything as badly as I want this marriage to last.

And for the first time in my life, I understand that making it last isn't something I can accomplish by force. It means showing up, listening, and keeping my promises, especially when doing so isn't easy.

Later, after our guests have gone and Bridget has kicked off her shoes, I find my wife standing in the living room admiring her wedding ring.

My wife.

Fuck, I love the sound of that.

I step behind her and wrap my arms around her waist.

"You're mine, Mrs. Moretti."

She leans back against my chest, smiling.

"And you're mine, husband."

Behind us, something expensive crashes to the floor.

Bridget closes her eyes.

"Salem."

I look toward the bookshelf, where the little black bastard is examining the destruction with absolutely no remorse.

My wife starts laughing, and I pull her closer.