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𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐚

"Don't be scared."

His hand ghosts over your spine and comes to rest on your shoulder blade, fingers carefully undoing the buttons of your wedding dress. The lace slips past your legs to the floor and the sight of the white silk pooling around your naked feet reminds you that now, you're inevitably bound to none other than Luca Changretta, who has become your husband on this very day. Truthfully, you didn't have a choice — you were meant to marry the leader of the Italian mob since the day your brother killed his father, shot him straight through the head without an ounce of hesitance and that bullet sealed your fate.

Tommy knew it would only be a matter of time until they'd return for the vengeful spill of Shelby blood. Still, it hurts how he barely considered your opinion when he arranged your marriage, a peace offering to prevent more unnecessary deaths in the streets of Birmingham, and sold you off to the Italians as if you were merely another figure on his chess board and not his sister.

That's the curse of being a Shelby, isn't it? The purpose of your existence is to sacrifice everything for your family without batting an eye and perhaps that's why Tommy selected you as the bride - because you were tired of losing because you wanted to live your own life. Because you wanted more.

This is the price you pay.

"I know you're afraid," Luca murmurs as if he read your racing thoughts, brushing a strand of hair out of your face and gently grabbing your hands to help you step out of your gown. There's a tenderness to his touch you didn't expect to fund after all that has happened between your families, the hatred and the resentment that bonds the two of you, but even now, as he guides you to the bed and pushes you into the soft pillows, his grasp stays gentle. "I promise I'll take good care of you, amore. Just because I have, well, a strong dislike for your brothers doesn't mean I won't treat you like a gentleman."

"I didn't mean to insult you," you whisper, a blush on your cheeks. Your reply causes him to smile, a twitch of his lips that you would have surely missed if you didn't watch him so closely. His movements resemble those of a predator lurking around his prey — slow, calculated, elegance in every step he takes as he approaches the bed and gently spreads your legs before settling between them.

Arching his eyebrow, he caresses the supple flesh of your thighs, unbothered by your undergarments still covering your most vulnerable parts. You're grateful he's taking it so slowly, easing you into this new relationship with much more delicacy than you had expected of the Italian mob.

"You worry too much, pretty girl," he replies with a soft chuckle, an amused glint in his eyes as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your knickers, tugging on the flimsy fabric until it glides over the curve of your hips. Instinctively, you lift your legs to let him strip off the garment, though you can't suppress a pleasant shudder when his gaze returns to your cunt, now exposed to his sight. His fingers trace the inside of your thighs, a mere brush against your folds that causes you to take a sharp inhale full of anticipation and much to your surprise, your body moves on its own to get closer to him.

"Let me take care of you, yeah?" His question is followed by his hands grabbing your knees to throw your legs over his broad shoulders as he once again comes to rest on his stomach, pulling you closer until you feel his breath against your cunt. "It would be a shame to neglect you on our wedding day, wouldn't it? Especially when you look so beautiful, all spread out for me."

His lips nibble on your skin and you whine quietly at the sensation of his teeth sinking into your flesh, not enough to hurt you, certainly leaving marks you'll see tomorrow, and strangely, the thought of him claiming you in such a carnal and yet passionate way flusters you.

Maybe... maybe there's even a chance of love.

You would have liked to indulge in that thought for a moment longer, though Luca's teasing makes it hard for you to concentrate on anything else but his skilled mouth slowly trailing over the curve of our thigh to where you need him the most. The lack of stimulation frustrates you to no end and forces you, despite your wariness towards your new husband, to buck your hips in search of some friction he might allow you out of pity.