Chapter 9 #2
Marble floors so shiny I can see my nerves reflected back at me. Crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like they're auditioning for The Great Gatsby.
And big, moody, oil paintings that deserve bodyguards of their own.
The air hits me next. Lemon polish and something heavier underneath… old money.
The kind that seeps into the walls and clings to your skin.
We're led into a massive living room where people are already gathered.
Every head turns when we walk in.
Heat crawls up my neck. My pulse jackhammers.
It's like stepping onto a stage without a script, every spotlight aimed right at me.
Smile. Don't choke. Don't trip.
Run.
The word flashes through me, sharp as glass.
But Luca's hand brushes my back, a quiet reminder that I'm not walking in alone.
That doesn't mean I don't want to bolt.
"Luca!"
The voice booms, rough with age but sharp enough to cut glass.
A man breaks from the pack, moving like he's the king of the jungle here.
Silver hair slicked back, suit pressed within an inch of its life, gold rings flashing as he spreads his arms.
"Finally, you grace us with your presence."
The way he says it, half welcome, half warning, makes my stomach knot.
"Don Fiorello." Luca inclines his head respectfully. "May I present my fiancée, Isabelle Donovan."
My stomach drops. Oh God. This is him. The man.
The one whose word will weigh heavier than all the others.
Every eye in the room feels like a spotlight, but his lands like a gavel.
My palms go damp, my throat tight. I don't even know the rules of this game, and somehow I'm already the piece on the board being judged.
Run, my brain whispers. Smile, my mouth remembers.
Both feel impossible.
"Miss Donovan." Don Fiorello takes my hand, his skin papery against mine. "We've heard so much about you."
I seriously doubt that, considering Luca himself hardly knows anything about me beyond how I taste.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Don Fiorello," I say, channeling every ounce of politeness my mother ever taught me.
He studies me for a long moment, then turns to Luca. "We'll talk later," he says, his tone making it clear this isn't a suggestion.
The next hour is a blur of introductions. Names and faces wash over me like waves, too many to remember.
My face hurts from smiling. My hand aches from being shaken.
And I really need to pee after that long flight.
I excuse myself to find a bathroom. After three wrong turns, I finally find it—a bathroom bigger than my first apartment, all gold fixtures and marble countertops.
I'm washing my hands when I hear voices outside the door. Voices, speaking in hushed tones.
I catch snippets of conversation.
"Moretti's new toy…"
"…American girl…"
"…so young…"
"…what was Luca thinking…"
"…not even Italian…"
My blood runs cold. They're talking about me. I shut off the water, straining to hear more.
"She's naive," one voice says. "Probably has no idea what she's walked into. And so different from Elena"
"She'll never measure up."
I grip the edge of the sink, suddenly dizzy.
These people are comparing me to… his first wife.
Okay. Don't freak out. You've got this. Deep breath, Belle. Calm down.
I dry my hands, take a deep breath, and wait. One beat. Two.
The shuffle of footsteps finally fades down the hall.
Walking back to the living room, my mind races.
It feels a little like being Jackie walking into the Kennedy machine— already fighting ghosts that whispered in his ear long before I showed up.
I'm going to have to win their respect if I plan to stick around in his life.
How am I going to do that?
God only knows.
I find refuge behind a marble column, trying to disappear into the shadows while my pulse hammers against my ribs.
The conversations around me blur into white noise until I catch a familiar voice.
Luca. Low, urgent, speaking to a man with sharp cheekbones and pale eyes.
"—can't bury another mother," he's saying. "No children until this war ends."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Another mother.
Elena didn't just die—she was killed. And there's a war. An actual war that I know nothing about.
My vision tunnels. The room suddenly feels airless.
Children. He's talking about children. With me.
The fake fiancée who's supposed to be temporary, disposable, safe.
But nothing about this is safe, is it?
I press my back against the cool marble, fighting the urge to run.
To grab the first flight back to New York and my small, predictable life where the most dangerous thing I faced was Meatball's judgment.
My legs start to feel like noodles as I back away from the corner.
Before I can find somewhere else to hide, a waiter breezes by with seafood. Oysters, shrimp, something drenched in garlic.
The smell hits, and I gag.
Luca looks up then, his eyes finding mine across the room like he's got some kind of Belle-radar.
He excuses himself and walks right up to me.
"You look pale," he says, one hand coming up to cup my cheek.
His touch sends electricity shooting down my spine, making it hard to remember why I was feeling off in the first place.
"Just... jet lag," I manage.
A waiter appears with another tray of appetizers. The smell hits me again, fishy and pungent, and my stomach rolls.
"No, thank you," I say quickly, taking a step back.
Luca dismisses the waiter with a nod. "You really don't look well," he says, concern creeping into his voice.
"I'm fine," I insist. "Just tired. And maybe a little queasy from the flight."
His brow furrows. "We can leave if you want. Go to the hotel early."
The offer is tempting, but I shake my head. "No, we should stay. I don't want to insult your... colleagues."
"They'll survive," he says dryly.
We're interrupted by one of the Don's wives—Maria, I think her name is.
She's a woman in her sixties wearing enough diamonds to sink a ship.
"Luca, darling," she purrs, air-kissing both his cheeks. "And this must be your fiancée. How lovely to meet you, dear."
I paste on a smile.
Maria launches into a monologue about Italy, how we must have a proper wedding, and how I simply must let her introduce me to her favorite designer in Milan.
I try to focus, but fuck, she sounds dull.
"...don't you agree, my dear?" she asks, looking at me expectantly.
I blink. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
But my voice sounds far away, even to my own ears.
My eyes start drooping, right there on territory Luca doesn't know yet to call enemy.
Luca's arm locks around my waist. "I think my fiancée needs to rest," he tells Maria. "The long flight, you understand."
She nods, and I know she doesn't care. "Of course, darling. We'll continue this conversation tomorrow."
Luca practically carries me out to the car.
Inside the car, Rome slides past like a painting. I should be impressed.
Instead, my body feels like it's chewing me alive in its quest to stay awake.
I'm twisting my hands in my lap like I'm cramming for a pop quiz, when Luca's gaze flicks down.
Uh-oh. Busted.
Then it happens. His hand drops heavy on my knee. Warm. Possessive.
Electricity zips through me so hard I swear I feel it between my legs.
Awesome. Exactly what I need when I'm trying not to fall asleep.
"You okay?" he asks, soft like velvet.
No, I'm not okay. I'm sitting next to the Beast of New York, who looks like he eats popes for breakfast and somehow manages to make history lessons sound sexy.
"Fine," I croak. Lie of the century.
His thumb drags slowly over my knee, and my whole body jerks like he just flipped the breaker switch.
I haven't yet gotten the reality of how all those people saw me out of my head.
I can't just bring myself to tell him what they said about me because no way in hell he will believe I heard it right.
And here's the filthy truth—if I need to win his trust and their respect, really earn it, there's only one way I know how.
I need to be the good wife to him all young mafia dons want.
It's dirty. It's reckless. And God help me, it's exactly where my mind goes.
At my door, he hesitates. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers, then slides lower—throat, collarbone, the valley between my breasts that the dress just barely conceals.
"You should rest," he says, but his voice has gone rough around the edges.
"Should I?"
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air between us crackles with everything we're not saying.
Then he steps back. "Yes."
But I don't. I watch him walk away, all controlled power and barely leashed hunger.
His footsteps echo down the marble hallway—measured, steady, like he's forcing himself not to turn around.
I count to ten. Then I follow.
His door is unlocked. Of course it is. Men like Luca don't fear anything walking through their doors uninvited.
Except maybe me.
He's facing the window when I enter, jacket gone, shirt open at the throat.
The Rome skyline glitters behind him like a backdrop designed to make him look more dangerous.
"Belle." He doesn't turn around. "You should go back to your room."
"Should I?" I close the door behind me with a soft click. "Or should I tell you what I really want?"
Now he turns. His eyes are black in the lamplight, and I can see the exact moment his control starts to fray.
"I want you again." I pause, meet his eyes, let the words hang like smoke. "But rough this time."