Chapter 12 Luca
LUCA
The conference room at the Drake Hotel reeks of overpriced champagne and bullshit romance.
I slouch in a leather chair at the head of the table, one hand wrapped around a glass of scotch I shouldn’t be drinking at one in the afternoon, while a wedding planner named Cristina—or Christiana, or maybe Christiane, I stopped giving a fuck after the first five minutes—gestures enthusiastically at fabric swatches spread across the mahogany surface.
“—and for the reception, we’re thinking ivory and gold with touches of emerald to complement the bride’s coloring,” she gushes, her perfectly manicured hands fluttering over samples that all look identical to me.
“The floral arrangements will be absolutely breathtaking. Peonies, roses, and calla lilies imported from Ecuador—”
“Whatever.” I cut her off mid-sentence, not bothering to hide my irritation. “You’re the expert. Just make it look expensive.”
Cristina’s smile falters slightly, but she recovers with the practiced ease of someone who deals with difficult clients regularly. “Of course, Mr. Marchetti. We want everything to be perfect for your special day.”
Special day. As if this wedding is anything more than a carefully orchestrated business transaction dressed up in white silk and lies.
Across the table, Giuliana sits with her hands folded in her lap, her face a carefully maintained mask of polite interest. She’s wearing a simple black dress today, nothing like the expensive designer shit I’ve been forcing on her, and her dark hair is pulled back in that god-awful severe bun that makes her look older, more tired than her thirty-two years.
The exhaustion is my fault. I know that. Two and a half weeks of captivity and isolation is taking a visible toll. The shadows under her eyes have deepened, her cheeks look slightly more hollow, and there’s a haunted quality to her gaze that she can’t quite hide behind the facade of compliance.
The damn bird didn’t make it, and it’s destroyed her faster than any punishment I could give.
Good. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it? To break her down piece by piece until nothing remains but obedience.
Except watching it happen makes me feel like I’ve swallowed broken glass.
“Ms. Conti?” Cristina’s voice pulls my attention back to the table. She looks expectantly at Giuliana. “What are your thoughts on the color palette? Your input is so important. This is your day too, after all.”
Giuliana’s smile is small and doesn’t reach her eyes. “Whatever Luca prefers is fine with me.”
The words are delivered with perfect submission, the kind of response that should satisfy me. Instead, they make me bite my tongue. This isn’t victory—it’s watching someone slowly disappear inside themselves, and I’m intimately familiar with what that looks like.
“Nonsense!” Cristina laughs, oblivious to the undercurrents. “Every bride has opinions about her wedding.” She smiles widely at Giuliana, her white teeth nearly glowing in the light. “Come now, don’t be shy. Do you prefer the ivory linens or the champagne?”
I watch Giuliana’s throat work as she swallows, her hands tightening imperceptibly in her lap. “The ivory is lovely.”
Cristina beams. “Wonderful choice! And for the centerpieces—”
My phone buzzes against the table, Danny’s name flashing on the screen. Thank fucking Christ.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, already pushing back my chair. “I need to take this.”
I don’t wait for permission before striding out of the conference room and into the hotel’s ornate hallway. The cloying smell of roses makes me sneeze. The door closes behind me, muffling Cristina’s continued enthusiastic planning.
“What?” I answer, my voice harsher than necessary.
“Jesus, you sound cheerful,” Danny replies dryly. “How’s wedding planning going?”
I scowl, even though Danny can’t see me. “Like being slowly skinned alive,” I reply as I walk down the hallway. “What do you want?”
A pause. “When are you going to let her call Katie?”
I stop walking, my free hand curling into a fist against my thigh. “Not this again.”
“Yeah, this again.” Danny’s voice carries an edge I don’t appreciate. “It’s been nearly three weeks, boss. Three weeks of complete isolation from everyone and everything she knew. One phone call—supervised, monitored, whatever protocols you want—just let her tell her friend she’s alive.”
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?” The profanity is rare from Danny, which means he’s been building up to this conversation.
“What possible threat does Katie Carmichael pose to your plan? She’s a veterinarian who works at an animal hospital and drives a ten-year-old car.
You really think she’s going to mount some kind of rescue operation? ”
“It’s not about the threat,” I snap, resuming my pacing down the hallway, my nose wrinkling at the flowers. Fuck, how many are there in this goddamn hall? “It’s about control. Every connection to her old life makes her harder to—”
“Harder to break?” Danny finishes when I don’t. “Is that what we’re still doing? Destroying an innocent woman for crimes she didn’t commit?”
“Watch your tone.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me too? Add me to the list of people who’ve disappointed you?” His voice drops, becomes quieter but more intense. “I’ve followed you into hell, Luca. I’ve done things for you that keep me up at night. But this? This feels different. This feels wrong.”
The words make their mark because they echo my own growing doubts, the ones I’ve been trying to drown in scotch and justify with memories of Marco’s broken body.
“She’s not her father,” Danny continues into my silence.
“She turned down two million dollars and freedom to avoid betraying you. She treats injured animals and household staff with more kindness than most people in our world show their own families. And you’re destroying her to punish a man who isn’t even here to watch. ”
“Antonio will know,” I say through gritted teeth. “When I’m done with her, when I finally let him see what his choices have cost his daughter, he’ll understand exactly what he took from me.”
“And what about what you’re currently taking from her?” Danny challenges. “Her freedom, her career, her life, her sanity? Does that balance the scales for Marco? Is that what he would have wanted?”
An inhuman noise passes my lips. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me what Marco would have wanted,” I nearly snarl, feeling my face heat up. “You—”
My voice breaks, the memory of Marco’s lifeless eyes too vivid even after three years. The way his body was still warm when I found him, like maybe if I’d just been faster, smarter, better—
“I know,” Danny says quietly. “I know it destroyed you. I know you need someone to pay for it. But Luca, one phone call to Katie won’t hurt your plan.
It might actually help it. A completely broken woman can’t play the role of devoted fiancée for Viktor Torrino.
She needs something to hold onto, some small piece of humanity, or she’s going to shatter completely. ”
The observation is uncomfortably accurate. I’ve seen the cracks forming—the way Giuliana’s hands shake sometimes, the distant look in her eyes, the careful way she moves through the estate like she’s afraid of taking up too much space.
Like my mother used to move in those final months.
“I’ll consider it,” I lie, because the truth—that maintaining her isolation is as much about punishing myself as it is about punishing her father—is too complicated to explain even to Danny.
“Don’t consider it too long,” he warns. “You want her functional for this wedding? Then give her something to hold onto besides despair.”
He ends the call before I can respond, leaving me alone in the hallway with my thoughts and the uncomfortable weight of guilt I’m not supposed to feel.
Fuck.
I should go back to the conference room. Cristina is probably waiting with more fabric swatches and enthusiastic descriptions of imported flowers. But the thought of sitting there, watching Giuliana pretend to care about centerpieces while slowly dying inside, makes my stomach turn.
When I finally force myself back inside, the scene has shifted. Cristina is showing Giuliana something on her tablet. Photos of cakes, based on the brief glimpse I catch before she notices my return.
“Mr. Marchetti!” She beams at me like I’m a groom who gives a shit about wedding cake. “We were just discussing dessert options. Your fiancée has excellent taste. She suggested a naked cake with fresh berries and edible flowers. Very elegant, very on-trend.”
I look at Giuliana, who’s staring at the tablet with an expression I can’t quite read. “Fine. Whatever she wants.”
“Wonderful! Now, let’s talk about the ceremony itself. Have you chosen your vows? Traditional or personalized?”
The question makes me want to laugh. What the fuck would I say in personalized vows? I promise to destroy your spirit while using you as a political prop, then dispose of you once you’ve served your purpose?
“Traditional,” I say flatly.
“Of course.” Cristina makes a note. “And for the reception, we’ll need to coordinate with the photographer about the key moments—the first dance, the cake cutting, the toasts—”
“We’ll work it out later.” I check my watch with exaggerated purpose. “Are we done here?”
Cristina blinks, clearly taken aback by my abruptness. “Well, there are a few more details to discuss. The seating arrangements, the timing for—”
“Email me the details. I’ll approve whatever.” I stand, buttoning my suit jacket. “Giuliana, let’s go.”
She rises immediately, like a trained dog would do. We leave Cristina still sputtering about timelines and vendor coordination, and I don’t give a fuck about any of it.