Italian Prince, Wedlocked Wife

Dio santo, he loved her!

He’d never felt like this before. Never even imagined that he could. His princess. His bride.

Lucy. He stared at her, willing her to look at him, trying to show in his eyes all the love he felt in his heart. Lucy, ti amo.

He’d married her to get his hands on Ferrazzi—to get control of the company and his revenge on the old man. He’d married her to end his old guilt, to give her the security she’d lost as a baby.

But a miracle had occurred—he loved her.

He, who’d never been caught by any woman, who’d never once experienced a broken heart, was utterly captivated by his wife.

Ti amo, Lucy.

But she wouldn’t meet his gaze. And the longer he looked at her, he realized that something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Why wouldn’t she meet his gaze?

Non è niente di grave, he tried to convince himself. It is nothing. The flicker of the candles—the angle of her veil—they cause shadows.

He’d spoken with her just that morning. He remembered the warmth of her voice as she’d scolded him through the door. What could have changed since then?

Then, for the first time, he saw the man behind her. Hanging over her like a wraith.

Giuseppe Ferrazzi.

Hatred ripped through him so great and powerful that he couldn’t move.

How had Ferrazzi reached her? In spite of all his bodyguards? In spite of everything?

They came down the short aisle. As the audience sat back down, still murmuring appreciatively over the stunning beauty of the bride, they had no idea of what they were about to witness.

But the villagers in the back of the chapel knew. He saw their stunned faces, their wide eyes. Amelia, holding a slumbering Chloe in the front row, had a face as white as snow.

How…? How was it possible?

There could be only one explanation. Lucy had defied him. Ignoring his orders, she’d risked everything, going behind Maximo’s back to visit the old man.

Leaving only one grim question.

What had Ferrazzi told her?

As Lucy finally arrived by his side, he gently reached over and lifted her veil. He looked into her beautiful face, and knew the answer.

Ferrazzi had told her everything.

All the light had gone out of her expressive brown eyes. All the warmth. And it wasn’t until now, when it was gone, that he realized that it was her light which had kept him warm since the day he’d plucked her from the gas station in Chicago and forced her to become his bride.

He’d meant to save her.

But she was the one who’d saved him, from a cold life of vengeance and empty pleasures.

Why had she spoken to Ferrazzi, today of all days? Why, when they could have been so happy?

“Why did you do it?” he said in

a low voice, for her alone. “Why did you defy me?”

She didn’t look at him. Her voice was hollow. “Because I loved you.”

Loved. Past tense.