Chapter 9
BELLE
Apparently, my new reality is packing for Italy with the same notice normal people give for brunch.
Now that I'm engaged to the Beast of New York, and playing stepmom to his adorable daughter, I'm apparently being whisked off to Italy to meet his mob family.
This is fine. Everything's fine. I'm totally not freaking out or anything.
Yeah, right.
"Come on, Belle," I mutter to myself. "You've got this."
But I've not got this. It's past midnight, and we're set to fly in six hours.
Luca's sent over so many clothes, and my room looks like the wardrobe exploded all over it.
And none of these things look cheap. I didn't even know Pucci was a thing, and apparently, Gucci's for amateurs.
Real players toss around Loro Piana like it's pocket change.
"Ugh," I groan, and throw a black Hermès into my suitcase. Probably a cardinal sin, but I don't even know what it costs, and carrying it feels… ostentatious.
I'll bring it when I meet the Council, if anyone needs impressing, it's them.
Luca says we're flying to Rome to meet five guys who basically boss around every family.
My brain when he calls them the old guard council? Immediately screamed cult, cult, cult.
So, Sofia, the canine, and Meatball stay back here with the staff, while Luca and I will fly across the ocean to meet the mob version of the Supreme Court.
I groan again and Meatball judges me from the bed.
"Don't look at me like that," I tell him. "You're not the one who has to impress a bunch of gangsters."
Meatball blinks slowly, which I take as his way of saying: "You're screwed, lady."
"Yeah, yeah, I know," I mutter.
When I agreed to marry Luca, I never knew impressing the old guard came with the deal.
Had I known, I might've started therapy.
Needless to say, I don't sleep a wink that night, tossing and turning and wondering what happens if they don't like me.
Luca doesn't say, but I can tell he's putting his neck out for me.
Tomorrow's already starting to feel like the SATs again.
By morning, I look like I've been hit by the insomnia truck. Fantastic.
Just when it's time to leave, there's a knock on my door.
I open it to find Luca, looking unfairly fresh in yet another perfectly tailored suit.
Black, of course, like he's always got a funeral to go to. But it doesn't matter.
On him, even death looks good.
"Ready?" he asks, eyes dragging down me, slow as dripping honey.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, smoothing out the fall of my shirt.
I'm in my best jeans and a blouse that can't possibly pass for nice, but under his stare, I feel naked.
Like I showed up to the Met Gala in sweatpants.
"Uh, yeah, sure," I mutter under my breath, when what I want most is to scream rain-check.
But hey, I agreed to marry the guy, right? Gotta uphold my end of the bargain.
If he needs to parade his wife around, I'm prepared to trot.
He leans against the frame, not moving, just taking his time.
His gaze lingers where it shouldn't, and my pulse trips over itself.
"You look good," he says, before walking away.
I just stand there, dumbfounded, wondering why hearing that from him makes it feel like I've done something right.
We glide onto a private airfield. Heat shimmers off the tarmac.
The jet sits there gleaming like a sin you only commit with NDAs.
"Seriously? A jet?" I ask.
He gives me a look reserved for people who say "Greyhound."
"You thought I'd fly commercial?"
God forbid the Beast of New York wait in line for peanuts and a middle seat.
I shake my head, still staring. "I don't know… maybe first class?"
"Oh, Belle." He sighs, like I've committed a cardinal sin.
When I look over and see him shaking his head, all from my doing, I'm reminded of what a different world he comes from.
One I'd never even known existed.
And knowing he picked me to be his wife gets my heart fluttering like a teenager who got smiled at by a Hollywood celebrity.
His palm finds the small of my back—that spot that makes my whole spine light up like a fuse.
The heat of him bleeds through silk.
"Shall we?"
The stairs are narrow. His body brackets mine from behind, and I catch his cologne—something dark and expensive that makes me want to lean back into him.
I don't. I climb, feeling like Alice headed down a very different rabbit hole.
Inside, it's all butter-soft leather and wood panels that probably cost more than my dad's entire showroom.
The air tastes different here—filtered, pristine, like even oxygen comes premium.
"Sit wherever you like," he says, folding himself into leather like he was born to it.
I take the seat across from him—far enough to think straight, close enough that our knees almost touch when I cross my legs.
The cabin shrinks. His eyes track the movement, and suddenly I'm hyperaware of every inch of skin my dress doesn't cover.
Once we're in the air, a flight attendant appears with champagne. At seven-thirty in the morning. Because why not?
"No, thank you," I say. "Coffee would be great, though."
Luca raises an eyebrow. "You'll need the champagne more than the coffee once we land."
"Is that supposed to be comforting?" I ask.
"It's supposed to be honest." He takes a sip of his own champagne. "The old men don't like change, outsiders, or Americans with smart mouths."
Great. Three strikes and I haven't even landed yet.
I grab the champagne.
Luca smirks.
I take a sip and let it wash over me. Maybe it's the smouldering way he's looking at me, and that I'm not in control here, but I let my fears be known.
"Hey, Luca…" I whisper, my voice trembling.
His eyes snap to mine, like he wants to see what I can't say. Like he doesn't want to miss a thing.
"What if they don't like me?"
His jaw ticks.
"I'll keep you safe," Luca says. "No matter what happens in Italy, you're under my protection. Remember that."
I should hate needing him… but God, it feels good knowing he's got me.
We hit tarmac with a bone-jarring thud, and suddenly Rome isn't just a destination on a boarding pass—it's real.
Ancient stone and terracotta rooftops spread like a fever dream under Mediterranean sun.
I press my nose to the window like I'm five. "It's..." I trail off, because gorgeous doesn't cover it.
It looks like history decided to pose for a postcard.
"Never been," I admit.
"Good." There's something proprietary in his voice, like he's about to show me his personal collection. "Then you'll see it through the right eyes."
The way he says it makes me think he doesn't mean tourist eyes. He means his eyes. His world.
Once again, his hand lands on my lower back, licking flames up my spine as he leads me to the tarmac.
The car waiting for us looks like it belongs in a Bond movie. Black. Sleek. Silent.
A driver in a cap bows like Luca's some visiting head of state. Which, I guess, he sort of is.
Inside, the leather is buttery soft, and the city unfurls around us like a painting.
Ancient ruins, crumbling arches, fountains that have seen centuries.
Luca starts pointing things out like a man telling pieces of his own story.
"See that?" Luca points out the window. His voice is lower than usual, calmer, almost…proud. "That's Ponte Cestio. Two thousand years old. They built it without machines, without steel. Still standing."
I stare out the window. "You like bridges that much?"
He cuts me a look that says I'm an idiot. "I know history. It matters here."
God help me, but the way he says it makes my stomach flip.
Because it's not a lecture—it's… sexy. Him sitting there in his perfectly tailored black suit, one hand resting easy on his knee, talking about ancient Rome like it's family gossip?
Yeah. Unfair how he's twice the age of guys I've dated, and hotter than them all.
The longer the drive gets, the more nervous I feel.
I start to get too anxious to appreciate the scenery, too busy rehearsing what I'll say to these Council members.
His eyes flick to me. They catch the nervous way I'm twisting my hands, like I've been busted cheating on a test.
Without warning, his palm lands on my knee. Heavy. Warm. Possessive.
Electricity skitters through me like I just grabbed a live wire. I freeze, pulse hammering in my throat.
"Easy," he murmurs. His thumb strokes once, slow, and my whole body lights up like Times Square.
I swallow hard. God, why does he notice everything?
He leans in, close enough that his cologne tangles with my thoughts. "Let me do the talking when we get there."
His voice is silk over steel. "All you have to do is let them see what's mine."
I gulp so loud it might register on the Richter scale. His eyes flash with satisfaction, like he heard it, like he wanted it.
And that cocky little smirk? Yeah. Rome just got a whole lot hotter.
We roll up to what can only be described as a Renaissance fortress wearing palazzo's clothing.
Cream stone, iron balconies, windows that look down like hooded eyes.
It's beautiful in the way a guillotine is beautiful—all clean lines and deadly purpose.
"Jesus," I breathe, craning my neck. "This is someone's house?"
"Don Fiorello's." Luca helps me out, his hand steady at my elbow. "The others are already here."
"Others?"
"Five families. Their wives, their lieutenants." He straightens his cufflinks like he's preparing for battle. "About thirty people."
My stomach drops to my shoes. "Thirty people are going to judge whether I'm good enough for you?"
"Thirty people are going to see that you already are." His hand finds the small of my back, fingers spreading wide. "You're not livestock, Belle. You're the woman I chose."
The heat of his palm bleeds through silk, and instead of calming me down, it just reminds me how his touch can undo me completely.
Not helpful when I need to appear composed.
Soon enough, we're being ushered inside by men who look like they eat nails for breakfast.
Walking into Don Fiorello's mansion feels less like stepping into a home and more like being dropped inside a damn museum.