To save her family from financial ruin, Elena Romano is forced into an arranged marriage with the most feared man in New York's underworld-Luca Moretti, a ruthless mafia boss. What begins as a cold, loveless union soon transforms as Elena discovers...
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Waking up next to Luca is always disorienting.
I open my eyes to the soft glow of the morning sun filtering through the heavy curtains, casting a golden light across the room. It's beautiful, in a way, but there's always a strange tension in the air—like a breath being held. Luca is already gone, as usual. The space beside me is cold, and untouched, a stark reminder that while we share a bed, we don't share the intimacy that should come with it.
I sit up slowly, letting the sheets fall away as I wrap my arms around myself, trying to shake off the lingering haze of sleep. The room feels enormous, the vaulted ceilings and dark wooden furniture giving the space an almost oppressive grandeur. It's hard to feel at home in a place that feels more like a museum than a house. The bed is too big, the silence too thick.
By the time I make my way downstairs, the mansion is already alive with quiet activity. The staff move around like ghosts, their footsteps silent as they tend to their tasks. I still don't know most of their names, though they've all been polite—distant, but polite. I wonder if they pity me, the new bride of the infamous Luca Moretti, trapped in this gilded cage. I don't ask. It's easier not to know.
Luca is already seated at the long dining table when I arrive, impeccably dressed as always. His suit is perfectly tailored, the crisp white shirt beneath it making him look like he stepped out of a magazine. He glances up briefly as I enter, his dark eyes flicking over me with that familiar, unreadable expression. His face is a mask—calm, controlled, giving nothing away. He's like a fortress, enigmatic and distant, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to break through.
"Good morning," he says, his voice smooth but detached, as though we're business associates rather than husband and wife.
"Morning," I reply, taking a seat across from him. The distance between us feels vast, even though we're sitting at the same table. I sip my coffee in silence, the bitter taste doing little to wake me. My eyes wander across the room, taking in the polished floors, the expensive art on the walls, and the high ceilings that make everything feel even more remote. It's all beautiful, but it's not mine. It's his.
We sit like this every morning, exchanging pleasantries and little else. He asks how I slept. I lie and say "Fine." He nods, and that's usually the end of it. There's a part of me that wants to ask him more, to push past the small talk and find out what's going on in his head. But every time I look into his eyes, I lose my nerve. There's something about the way he holds himself—so self-assured, so in control—that makes me feel like I don't belong in his world. Like I'm just a guest here.
After breakfast, Luca disappears into his office, leaving me to my own devices. I watch him go, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall until it's just me and the quiet hum of the house. I don't know what he does in that office all day, but I can imagine. I've heard the murmurs of phone calls and the quiet conversations with men who come and go without fanfare. Business. Mafia business, though no one ever says it aloud. It's always there, lingering in the background, a shadow that follows Luca wherever he goes.
