Chapter 13 Luca
LUCA
Council meetings are exercises in controlled violence. Five old men who mistake age for authority, spreading across my office like they're granting me audience instead of the other way around.
Every forced smile scrapes my teeth. Every diplomatic nod feels like swallowing glass. They sit there in their thousand-dollar suits, playing puppet master with an empire they couldn't run for a day without bleeding out in the streets.
Don Fiorello's watching me from the corner of his eye. The others are scattered around like crows at a funeral.
My knuckles ache from clenching my fists with impatience. Two hours in, and we're still talking shipments and territory like it's 1950.
Declan sits beside me, sleeves rolled, hands in his pockets like he's too bored to care.
And he thinks he's fit to run my empire. What a colossal joke.
"The Russians are pushing into Brooklyn again," Don Fiorello says. "Your father would have taken care of this by now."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My father this, my father that. Dead ten years and they still throw him in my face.
"My father didn't have the Bratva running fentanyl through his shipping lanes," I shoot back. "Different times."
Don Catalano, the youngest at seventy, snorts. "Different times, or different balls?"
Everyone chuckles. I don't. Declan's been too quiet, which never means anything good.
The meeting goes on the same way all these meetings do: money, routes, corrections to routes, a discreet reminder that a particular judge needs reminding. I nod, I delegate.
And then Declan goes for the throat.
"Speaking of housekeeping," Declan says, voice deceptively casual, "shouldn't we discuss the... situation in your house?"
Every muscle in my body coils. "Speak plainly."
"Your americana." He lets the word drip with disdain. "Belle."
The temperature drops ten degrees. Breathing stops. Even the old men sense blood in the water. I go perfectly still—the kind of stillness that precedes violence.
"What about her?"
Declan leans forward with that smirk I've wanted to punch off his face since we were kids, "Shouldn't we discuss your... engagement?"
"My engagement isn't council business," I say, my voice low. Warning shot.
Declan ignores it, like he does everything when it doesn't suit him. "When the Don of the Moretti family marries, it's everyone's business."
He turns to the old men. "Especially when his bride-to-be wanders the city unsupervised, doing God knows what with God knows who."
My blood turns to lava. The pen in my hand snaps, leaking ink onto my palm.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I grind out.
"Your little Belle," Declan drawls, his eyes gleaming. "She's been sneaking out. Taking taxis. Meeting people. Didn't you know?"
I keep my face blank, but inside I'm raging. He's not wrong. She has been going out. To meet her father, to live her life. All those are her rights.
He's baiting me, so I bait him right back. Time to show him who the bigger fish is around here.
"And how would you know that, Declan?" I ask. "Been watching her?"
"Someone has to." He shrugs. "Since you're too busy playing king to notice what's happening under your own roof."
My chair scrapes back before I realize I'm standing. "Say one more word about her."
Don Fiorello clears his throat. "Luca, sit down. Declan raises a valid concern."
I'm still standing, eyes locked on my brother. Something's off about the way he's watching Belle. Like he's hunting.
"Valid concern?" I laugh. "He's stirring shit because that's what Declan does best."
"Maybe," Don Fiorello concedes, "but we have questions about this woman. This... outsider."
"Her name is Belle," I say, my voice deadly quiet. "And she'll be your Donna when we marry. I suggest you start showing some respect."
Don Catalano leans forward. "We respect power, Luca. Not pretty faces. Who is she, really? Where did she come from?"
"You vetted her yourself," I remind him.
"We found nothing," another council member says. "No connections, no family power. Just a nobody whose father sells cheap furniture."
My jaw aches from clenching. "She's going to be my wife. That's all you need to know."
"Could be a plant," Don Catalano suggests. "The Colombians are smart. Maybe they found a sweet-faced girl to catch your eye? Get inside information?"
I slam my hand on the table.
"She's. Not. A. Plant." Each word drops like a body. They think she's a goddamn plant when she's not. She never asked for this. Never even knew I existed.
I cut a deal with her dad, plain and simple. But I'll never tell them that. Whatever little respect they give her now, that'll go right out the window when once they realize I bought her in a deal gone bad.
The old men exchange glances. I know that look. They think I've gone soft. Stupid. Dick-blind, as they used to say about my father.
"You seem very sure," Declan says, the doubt in his voice setting my teeth on edge. "But then again, you always were a sucker for a pretty face."
That does it. Something in me snaps like a steel cable under too much weight.
My fist closes around Declan's silk tie before conscious thought kicks in. I haul him across the mahogany table, contracts and pens scattering like startled birds. His perfectly styled composure cracks.
"Choose your next words very carefully," I whisper, close enough to see fear flicker behind his eyes.
"Luca, release him!" Don Fiorello's cane pounds the floor.
"You've been stalking my fiancée." Each word drips acid. "Explain. Now."
His smirk falters with my fist so close to his throat. "Just looking out for you, big brother."
"Bullshit." I tighten my grip. "You want something. What is it?"
"Luca, enough!" Don Fiorello pounds his cane on the floor.
I release Declan, shoving him back into his chair.
"My engagement stands," I tell the room at large. "Belle will be my wife. Anyone who has a problem with that can deal with me directly."
"You're making a mistake," Don Catalano says, his jowls quivering with disapproval. "This girl—"
"This girl," I cut him off, "is under my protection. If I hear one more word against her, if anyone so much as looks at her wrong, I will consider it a personal attack."
The threat hangs in the air, heavy as a storm.
"Are you threatening the council, Luca?" Don Fiorello asks quietly.
I look each old man in the eye, one by one. "Not a threat. A promise. I'm sure you understand, gentleman, that family always comes first."
The silence that follows is absolute.
"Good," I say at last. "Now, we're done."
"We haven't finished the agenda," Declan says before he can help it.
"We finished mine," I say, and leave.
I walk out, leaving them to stew their grudges. Let them talk. Let them plot. I've got bigger concerns.
Like finding Belle.
Behind me, I hear the door close.
"Brother." Declan's followed me out. That's the problem. Men like Declan never learn their lessons.
I turn and growl, "What the fuck is your game with Belle?"
"No game. Just concerned about your... investment."
"She's not an investment."
"No?" His eyebrow raises. "Then what is she? Besides the obvious entertainment value."
I lunge for him, and my fist connects with his jaw before I can stop myself. He staggers back, cursing.
"Jesus Christ, Luca!"
"Stay away from her," I snarl. "Whatever you're planning, whatever angle you're working, drop it."
He works his jaw, checking for damage. "You're in deeper than I thought."
"Last warning, Declan."
He holds up his hands in surrender. "Fine. Your girl, your problem. But when she shows her true colors, don't say I didn't warn you."
I turn away. I can't stand the sight of him right now. My blood's still boiling. There's something he's not telling me. Something about Belle. And I'm going to find out what it is.
But first, I need to see her.
I find Belle exiting her room.
She bangs into me, startled, her hand flying to her chest.
"Jesus, Luca. Ever hear of seeing where you walk?"
The moment our eyes meet, I see it—that microsecond of panic before she locks it down. Like a deer caught in headlights, calculating escape routes.
She's beautiful in the golden hallway light, all soft curves and sleep-mussed hair. But there's something else now. A wariness that wasn't there before. Distance where there used to be heat.
"Just getting water," she says, but her voice carries the careful neutrality of someone choosing words like weapons.
"Where were you yesterday?" I ask, cutting to the chase.
She blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Yesterday. You left the house. Where did you go?"
Her shoulders stiffen. "I told you I went to see my father, then do some shopping. Is that a crime now?"
"Alone?"
"Is that an interrogation?" She crosses her arms. "Last I checked, I wasn't under house arrest."
I move closer, watching her reaction. She takes a half-step back. Interesting.
"Declan says you've been sneaking out. Taking taxis. Meeting people."
Her eyebrows hit her forehead. "And Declan would know this how?"
"I don't know what to believe," I admit. "That's why I'm asking you."
"I've been shopping," she repeats. "And yes, I took a taxi because your drivers are intimidating as hell. Sue me."
"What's going on, Belle?" I ask, softer now. "You're different. Distant."
"Nothing's going on."
"Council thinks you're a risk," I whisper.
"And what do you think?" Her eyes widen.
"I think you're under my protection and need to tell me where you go."
"I'm also not your princess." Her eyes glow with rage. "I'm your payment. You don't need to protect me all that much. You could always find another me."
I step closer again, needing to tell her there will never be another her. When I reach for her waist, she flinches away.
Another red flag.
Something dark and dangerous rises in me. I slam my palm against the wall beside her head, making her jump.
"You think that's all this is?" I demand, my face inches from hers. "You think I'd bring just anyone into my home? Around my daughter? In front of the council? That you're replaceable?"
Her eyes widen, but she doesn't back down. "I don't know what to think anymore."
I press closer, caging her against the wall with my body. She's trembling, her chest heaving.
"You're mine," I tell her slowly. "Not because of your father's debt. Not because of the council or the family or any of that bullshit. You're mine because I chose you."
I brush my thumb across her lower lip, gentle as a whisper. "And you chose me too."
Her breathing stutters. "Luca..."
I can see the war in her eyes—wanting to pull away, wanting to lean in. Something's scaring her, and it's not me.
Belle Donovan doesn't scare easy.
"Tell me what's wrong," I murmur, letting my hand drift to her neck, her collarbone. "Whatever it is, I'll fix it."
She shoves me, hard.
"You can't fix everything, Luca," she says.
Frustration flares in my chest. I shove back, pinning her against the wall with my body. Her gasp is all I hear before I see her pupils blast open.
"Nothing's broken," I tell her, my lips hovering just above hers. "Not you. Not me. Not us."
She's breathing hard now, her hands fisted in my shirt, and the next thing I know, she's pulling me closer.
To silence the voices in my head, I crush my lips to hers. She makes a sound like she's dying, and then she's kissing me back, violent and desperate. Her nails dig into my shoulders, my neck, anywhere she can reach.
We're kissing like we're trying to hurt each other, like we're trying to break something open. Her teeth graze my bottom lip, drawing blood. I groan, lifting her against the wall, and her legs wrap around my waist.
"Tell me to stop," I dare her, my hands sliding under her shorts.
Her answer is to bite my lip harder, drawing me in deeper. We're falling, both of us, into something neither of us understands yet. But I know one thing for certain—
Whatever storm is coming, we're facing it together.