Obsessed with His Bride

But the one thing I kept coming back to, again and again, was Dante’s willingness to protect me.

There was no hesitation in him. It surprised me, I expected him to at least consider Vlas’s offer, but he never once paused. I don’t know what I am to Dante, how I could possibly be worth going to war over, but that seems to be what he was doing.

Dante was willing to go to war over me, and that scared me almost as much as it excited me.

The idea that I was worth killing for… or dying for… it never occurred to me. I’d never known someone that cared me about me like that. Not my father, not my friends, nobody. I’d always been alone, always gone through my life looking out for myself with the assumption that nobody else would do it for me.

And now, I was at my most vulnerable. I was living in the house of the man that killed my father, a violent and intense mafia Capo, and I was always in danger. And yet I felt like someone cared about me for the first time in my life.

It was a strange, impossible tension. That same sort of tension grew inside of me every time I thought about the way I felt for Dante.

Both lust and hate. Desire and destruction.

Evening fell on Dante’s house and I spent most of it in front of the TV. Gino sat on the front porch, reading magazine and smoking cigarettes. I made him some tea and he smiled and thanked me for it, but his eyes never lingered on mine. The more time we spent together, the more I realized that he was afraid of me. Afraid of getting too close, afraid of crossing some imaginary line. Which was sweet, really, as if he respected Dante too much to be anything more than my guard, not even my friend.

I sat back down on the couch and turned the TV on, but couldn’t bring myself to actually watch it. After a few minutes of mindless staring at the screen, I heard the door open and someone step inside. I looked over the back of the couch, figuring it was Gino coming in for some sugar or something for his tea, but instead an older gentleman in a sweater and a button-down shirt came hobbling into the room, leaning on a cane.

I stood up, surprised. The old man smiled at me. He had a wrinkled face, large nose, drooping earlobes, and short gray hair. His sweater vest and shirt looked nice and clean, but old and worn. His slacks were loose, and he was about my height, thought stooped with age.

“Hello,” I say. “Ah, I’m sorry. Are you looking for Dante?”

He smiled. “I might be. And who are you?”

“Aida,” I said, coming around the couch.

“Nice to meet you, Aida,” he said, but didn’t mention his name.

“Dante isn’t here right now. Did you see the man out front? Gino? Do you know Gino?”

He waved a hand. “I know Gino,” he said. “I’ve seen him around. He said you might offer me some tea if I came inside.”

I frowned a little and my eyes flicked over to the hallway. But Gino was still outside, which I found strange. This man must be some local neighborhood guy, and Gino figured I could use a little company.

“Of course,” I say, gesturing at the table. “Take a seat, I’ll make you some. Black tea? Milk or sugar?”

“Black would be nice,” he said and sat with a sigh. “Just a splash of milk, please.”

I reheated the water, poured it into a mug, and dropped the teabag in. I let it steep for a moment before adding some milk, stirring, and bringing it over on a small plate.

“Thank you,” he said. “But a little tip for next time. Don’t reheat the old water. Fresh water is always the way to go.”

I blushed a little. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” he said and smiled again. He did have a charming, confident smile, like a gentle grandfather. “So, Aida, sit down. Tell me how you know Dante.”

I took a seat across from him. “We met recently,” I said, trying to keep it vague. “He, ah, he knew my father. And I’m staying with him for a while now.”

“Your father,” the man mused. “How did Dante know your father?”

“Business,” I said.

He nodded. “I see.”

“And are you from around here?”

“Something like that.” He took out his teabag and sipped his drink. He smiled and nodded. “Very nice, thank you for this.”

“Of course.” I tilted my head at him as he leaned back in his chair. “Do you visit with Dante often?”

“Not as often as I should,” he said. “Dante is very… independent. He doesn’t like having anyone underfoot.”

I snorted. “That hasn’t been my experience.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Really?”