The Woman with the Ring (Costa Family)

That was also why I’d decided not to tell them about all the problems in my “marriage.” I wasn’t going to tell them about how we fought or the fact that he kept me inside the apartment, not even allowed to breathe in some damn fresh air.

It would serve no purpose to tell them all that.

So I was just going to avoid the topics when it was possible, or brush over it if I couldn’t.

I pulled my hair from the clip I’d put it in when it had still been damp so it got a little wave to it, put on some mascara and a bright red lip, then slipped into my dress.

It was a red velvet dress that hugged my frame. It had a scalloped bodice and while it was floor-length, there was a slit halfway up one thigh.

Normally, my mother would hate it.

You have to leave something to a man’s imagination.

But something told me that she wouldn’t object so much if I was already, whether anyone liked it or not, married.

Married women could get away with a lot more than single women who she saw as constantly looking for their future husbands, and therefore should model their behavior accordingly.

Finally, I slipped into my heels, spritzed on some perfume, and made my way down toward the first floor.

“That’s one hell of a dress, lamb,” Primo said, his hungry eyes roaming over me.

My body heated at his gaze, at the hunger in it, but I banked it all right back down.

“Thanks. Is the ziti ready? We need to get going,” I added, going to grab my coat.

“Ready, wrapped up, and on its way to the car,” Primo said, nodding.

“Why aren’t we going then?” I asked, impatient to be on our way, knowing it was a good forty-minute drive from Primo’s place to my mom’s. And that was on a good day, without holiday traffic.

“You’re forgetting something,” Primo said, making me instinctively pat myself down. Like I might have in my old life. Before I remembered I had no cell phone and no credit cards to check for.

My gaze slipped back to Primo’s just in time to find him reaching into his breast pocket, producing a small black jewelry box with a red bow on top.

“What’s this?” I asked, feeling my stomach twisting at the idea of him buying me a Christmas present. Especially because I hadn’t gotten him anything.

“Open it,” he demanded instead of answering, holding onto the bottom of the box, as he held it out to me to pop the top up.

So I did.

And found a gorgeous set of earrings inside. Tear-shaped, lever-back gold earrings encrusted with diamonds. That had likely cost a small fortune.

“That’s too much,” I said, even if it was taking a lot more self-control than I expected not to rip them out of their little padded prison and shove into my ear holes.

“It’s not,” he insisted. “Put them on so we can go.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

So I did that.

And I even murmured a little thank you to him for them because, even if I was determined to dislike the man, it had been an unexpectedly nice gesture.

With that, we were shuffling out into the car with an actual black-out glass partition to keep us hidden from whichever driver and guard or guards we had taking us from the Bronx and back to my mom’s brownstone in Manhattan.

We sat in silence the whole time, but I could feel his gaze on my hands when I would find myself easing some of my anxiety by rolling my engagement ring around on my finger.

“Looks busy,” Primo said as our driver double-parked so we could climb out.

“It always is,” I agreed, excitement bubbling up in my system, mixed with no small amount of anxiety at the consequences of bringing Primo Esposito, the man who’d tricked me into marriage with him, into a Costa home for a holiday.

But there wasn’t a lot of time to consider that as Primo took the bags and even the baked ziti, somehow managing to do it all with one hand as his other hand moved out, pressing into my lower back for some added stability as I walked up the rock-salted path that wasn’t doing a whole hell of a lot for the ice that had formed there.

“It’s going to be fine,” Primo said as I stood in front of the door, hearing the sounds of my loved ones inside—happy, carefree—too uncertain to raise my hand and open the door. A part of me was irrationally worried that my presence might damper their holiday spirit. “What are you worried about?” he asked when I stood there immobilized by my own fears.

“That I’m going to ruin Christmas,” I admitted, looking over at him.

“Ruin it?” Primo repeated, brows pinching. “Your family loves and misses you, Isabella.”