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We walked together to the heliport—the wedding party still going strong in the villa—to find Dante and Vito waiting.

The two men clasped hands before I gave Vito and my sister a goodbye hug, the noise of the blades powering up making it impossible to talk.

But as I watched Isla Donna disappear under the clouds and the helicopter swung into a turn to head across the sea to Naples, I glanced at my new husband, who was busy texting on his phone, and I had another disturbing blast of déjà vu.

The grinding sensation in my stomach returned, that I remembered from the day Mia and I had read the scribbled note our mum had left on the kitchen table the morning she’d disappeared—something about spending a long weekend at a festival. And even though Mia had been convinced we were never going to see her again, I’d wanted to believe that couldn’t possibly be true.

In the weeks and months and years that had followed, I’d finally had to face the fact that I had been wrong to trust her, to love her, because she had never cared about either of us the way she cared about her next party, or her next joint, or her next deadbeat boyfriend. And she had never been the person I’d wanted her to be, that I’d tried so hard to believe she could be…

I looked out at the night sky as the lights of Naples appeared on the horizon and placed my hand on my stomach, rubbing away the grinding sensation, until it passed.

Don’t be daft, Evie, that was then and this is now. And you’re his wife. And you would never let anyone treat you like that again… Never.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Evie

The following twenty-four hours went by in a blur of activity, exhaustion and scalding-hot sex… During which I managed to totally forget about those daft moments of uncertainty on my wedding day.

Once Dante’s private jet had taken off from Naples, he dragged me to the bedroom at the back of the plane and introduced me to the mile-high club with a power and focus that told me how much he’d missed me. He feasted on my body and made me come, over and over again, until I had to beg him to find his own release. But when we showered together afterwards he soaped my over-sensitive body, calling me ‘mia donna’… And made me ache for him still.

New York was every bit as incredible as I had expected—and so much more. As we drove into the city in a stretch limo, Dante gave an indulgent chuckle when I spotted the Empire State Building on the approach into Manhattan, the iconic skyline rising over the East River almost as breathtaking as the man whose ring was now on my finger.

When we arrived at our new home—a nine-bedroom historic townhouse on the Upper East Side with a roof terrace that looked out over Central Park and an indoor pool—I began to feel a little overwhelmed. Not just by the opulence but by the excitement of being able to make a home with Dante somewhere so luxurious and so far removed from my one-bedroom basement flat in Ealing, West London, or the violence of his life on Cala Verde. So I was more than grateful when, after getting a tour of the house from our housekeeper Maria, we crashed in our stunning new bedroom suite, with Dante’s arms secure around me.

Maria and the rest of our five-person staff lived in a separate basement annexe, with Dante’s bodyguards, which turned out to be super fortuitous when we woke up in the middle of the night—because, jetlag—and set about christening as many of the bedrooms as we could—because, newlyweds!

I’d become more used to this kind of life after Mia had hooked up with Vito, but the sensory overload of the past twenty-four hours started to hit me hard while Dante and I got dressed together that evening.

We were due to host the lavish introductory event Mia had mentioned together in a historic nineteen-twenties hall in Midtown—but that was pretty much all anyone had told me. As I watched Dante button his shirt, it reminded me of the time we had dressed together for his coming-home party on Cala Verde. But I wasn’t his captive any more, I was his wife. And this would be our first social engagement as a married couple. I didn’t want to mess it up—especially as he would be relying on me to be the gracious hostess. I knew they’d employed event organisers to do most of the work, but still I felt the pressure to make a good impression. What experience did I have of hosting anything, let alone an event for New York’s chicest society doyennes and most important businesspeople?

If Dante was nervous there was no sign of it. I, on the other hand, was struggling to control my thundering pulse when we climbed into the chauffeur-driven limo taking us to the event. I wanted to wow him. To show him I was ready to be his wife—and an equal partner in our new life together.

Renaissance Hall when we arrived was already crowded with people. Corinthian columns and a stained-glass skylight made the main ballroom look grand and imposing. The guests were already waiting to greet us. Dante was gruff but unfazed. He looped my arm through his, keeping me close to his side as he strode into the ballroom. Within seconds we were surrounded by people. A clean-cut man in his thirties was the first to approach us and introduced himself as a financier who had done business with Vito. He immediately took an interest in me and congratulated me on our recent marriage. I recognised his type, young, successful, conventionally handsome and an inveterate flirt. I could tell instantly that Dante didn’t like him giving me so much attention, but the conversation was so innocuous I knew it was harmless.

But after we’d exchanged a few pleasantries, Dante—who had been ominously silent—interrupted our chit-chat. ‘If you look at my wife’s breasts again, I will cut out your eyes.’

‘I’m s-sorry?’ the man stammered, his face going pale, while I could feel my cheeks igniting.

‘You heard me,’ Dante replied, his expression a mask of stone-cold fury.

‘Could you excuse us please,’ I managed.

The man—whose name I couldn’t even remember—didn’t need another invitation. He scurried off through the crowd, no doubt to tell the whole of Manhattan high society about what a violent, unsophisticated asshole the new CEO of Rocco Properties was.

‘Dante, why did you say that?’ I whispered.

‘He looked at your breasts,’ he murmured. ‘And asked you too many personal questions. This I will not allow.’

‘We were just making small talk, it’s what you do at events like this. And threats of violence aren’t appropriate in this setting,’ I said, trying to be subtle.

‘It was not a threat, it was a promise,’ he said, and I realised he meant it.

I shuddered. I’d always known he was a violent man, who would protect what was his without remorse—but until this moment it had never occurred to me I would be the focus of that ruthlessness.

‘If you did something like that here you would be arrested,’ I said. ‘Is that what you want? To throw away everything you have achieved because you’re jealous of a man whose name I don’t even know?’ I said, trying again to make him realise he needed to adjust his behaviour now. That he needed to learn restraint.

‘Then you will not accompany me again,’ he said, as if he were being perfectly reasonable. ‘I will not have you spoken to or looked at like that by men I do not trust. Or respect.’