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“You think?” Tears erupted in the lower troughs of my lids and trembled precariously. I felt suddenly six years old on my first day of school, unwilling to let go of my father’s hand. “I hope so.”

“I know so,” he determined. “Because I am. As are your brothers. I know you have been unhappy that you could not marry Niccolo Malatesta, but I would not have made this arrangement to send you across the world to America if this marriage was not so important to the Family. The Ferretti and Cavallaro families have been at odds for too long, and we have both lost much. We are both Sicilian, we should be banded together against the world, not locked in our own internal struggle.”

“Yes, Papà,” I agreed, though I was privy to very little of his business dealings.

All I knew was that my father and older brothers, Ricco and Beppe, had been locked in negotiations with the Ferretti family for months before something gave.

That something being me.

He considered me, sweeping a thumb over my cheek. “You know, it was only after Dario’s father, Lando, saw you that he reached out to make this deal. It is your beauty, so legendary, that has made this possible.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, blushing as I tried to duck my face.

Until Niccolo, I had never felt beautiful, possibly because the soldiers were not allowed to talk to me and the staff did not offer personal comments. Both Beppe and Ricco loved me, in their own ways, but they were men’s men, off carousing and womanizing more than they were at home spending time in my lonely tower.

It was only Niccolo’s soft, sweet words in my ear that convinced me I was beautiful, at least to him.

And he was all that mattered.

Papà’s hands tightened on my cheeks, and his expression was fierce when he next spoke. “The entire family is counting on you, Fiammetta. It is important you are a good wife and represent the Cavallaro name well.”

“Of course,” I said, because no matter the umbrage that burned around the exterior of my heart, I had been raised no other way.

Obedience and family were paramount.

I had no other option, not even a real desire to rebel, though my heart sang out for another.

“Have you been practicing your English?” he asked me.

I straightened my shoulders and carefully enunciated, so that my accent wasn’t too thick. “Yes, I have been practicing every day. My tutor tells me I am very good at speaking English.”

Papà smiled at me, patted my cheek, and then stepped aside to offer me his arm. “You are ready, then, my sweet girl.”

My heart jumped into my throat, and I was forced to clutch my father’s arm too tightly so that I didn’t falter on my high heels as we made our way toward the door and the man waiting for me on the other side down the aisle.

“I love you, Papà,” I whispered breathlessly as we strode toward the double doors that led into the cathedral proper.

“And I, you,” he echoed, pressing his other hand to mine on top of his arm. “Remember even across oceans, you are very loved.”

I swallowed down the burn of tears and sucked in a deep breath as Papà nodded at an attendant, who then flung open the doors, the spill of Wagner’s wedding march filling my ears.

The Palermo Cathedral was enormous and, usually, not open for marriage ceremonies, but given who my father was, they had made an exception. The pale marble room was bright with sunlight spilling in through the high windows, white and pale-pink blossoms glowing from the backs of wooden pews and dripping down the wide columns on either side of the nave. There were hundreds of guests, their faces blurred in my periphery because the only person I cared about was standing on the left side on the outside of the row.

Niccolo Malatesta.

His golden hair was cut short so that the curls were tamed, his lean form clad in a dark-blue suit, one I recognized from a date we took to the Valley of the Temples. I could see the warmth in his dark eyes from yards away, the remorse weighing heavily at the corners of his mouth.

Ti amo, he mouthed to me.

I swallowed thickly against another surge of tears and forced myself to look away from the love of my life to the man of my future at the front of the cathedral.

Dario Ferretti.

As we drew closer, I noted that he was dressed more appropriately for a funeral than his own wedding, in an all-black suit, shirt, and tie, a bloodred silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. More disconcerting than that was his sheer masculine beauty.

It arrested the breath in my lungs and the blood in my veins.

His hair was overlong, brushing his shoulders in lustrous raven-black waves, the only softness in his appearance. His features were carved from pale-bronze stone: a nose on the right side of hawkish, a strong jaw that ended in a square chin, and a prominent brow that hooded two gleaming blue eyes as pale as chips of arctic ice.