Chapter 13 Giuliana
GIULIANA
The invitation arrives one day after the disastrous dress fitting.
The thick cream cardstock with embossed lettering is fancier than anything I’ve seen in my life.
I stare at it over breakfast, my coffee going cold as I read the elegant script: Salvatore and Josefina Romano request the pleasure of your company for an evening celebration in honor of Chicago’s finest families.
“We’re going,” Luca says from across the table, not looking up from his tablet. “It’s not optional.”
I set down the invitation with trembling fingers. “I assumed as much.”
“Salvatore’s gatherings are important for maintaining alliances.” He finally glances up, his dark eyes assessing me critically. “Viktor Torrino will be there. The Benedettos. Everyone who matters in our world.” He sets down his tablet. “Which means you’ll be on display as my devoted fiancée.”
On display. Like I’m a particularly impressive item he wants to show off. The thought makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to nod. “What time should I be ready?”
“Seven. Linnea will help you dress.” He returns his attention back to the tablet.
I resume picking at my breakfast.
“And Giuliana?”
I look up to see him glaring at me. “Don’t embarrass me. These people aren’t like the boutique staff or wedding planners. They’re wolves, and they’ll eat you alive if they sense weakness.”
Fuck him. “I’ll play my part,” I say, not really wanting to argue anymore. I’m not weak, but he’ll never believe me.
Luca nods. “See that you do.”
I’m standing in the Romano estate’s entrance hall, my hand tucked into the crook of Luca’s arm, trying not to let my terror show on my face.
The Romano estate makes Luca’s fortress look downright modest by comparison.
It took everything in me to not gape when we pulled up to the place.
Sprawling across what must be fifty acres of Chicago’s most exclusive suburb, the main house is all about excess.
White columns that belong on a Greek temple.
Fountains that could supply a small village.
Manicured gardens that probably require a staff of twenty to maintain.
I hate it on sight.
The entrance hall is designed to intimidate.
Black and white marble floors stretch toward a double staircase that curves up to the second floor.
There’s enough security cameras to make a bank vault jealous.
Staff members in formal attire move efficiently through the space, carrying champagne and hors d’oeuvres that look too artistic to eat.
“Remember,” Luca murmurs against my ear, his breath warm on my skin, “you’re madly in love with me. Devoted. Grateful for the honor of becoming my wife. Can you manage that?”
I paste on a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Of course.”
His fingers tighten warningly on my arm. “I’m serious, Giuliana. These people will be watching for any sign of discord, any hint that our marriage is anything other than what I’ve presented it to be. One wrong word, one inappropriate reaction, and you put both of us in danger.”
The casual mention of danger makes my pulse spike, but I keep my expression neutral. “I understand.”
“Good.” He presses a kiss to my temple—for show, always for show, even though it makes my heart skip a beat. “Then let’s go remind Chicago’s criminal elite exactly who they’re dealing with.”
The entrance hall swallows us into its marble embrace, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the crowd. Dangerous people dressed in designer clothes, their conversations peppered with carefully coded language about territory and shipments and things I desperately wish I didn’t understand.
And everywhere, there are eyes. Watching and assessing every detail of my appearance and behavior for later analysis.
“Luca!” A booming voice cuts through the ambient noise, and my blood turns to ice before I even see the speaker.
Because I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my nightmares for three years.
A man approaches with the confident stride of someone who owns everything he surveys—silver hair perfectly styled, blue eyes sharp and assessing, an expensive suit tailored to disguise the softness that comes with age and excess. He looks like a respectable businessman, maybe a banker or a CEO.
“Giuliana,” Luca says, his fingers tightening slightly against my back, “this is our host, Salvatore Romano. Salvatore, my fiancée, Dr. Giuliana Conti.”
If Luca wasn’t touching me, I would have fallen over.
That voice. The voice that’s haunted my nightmares for three years. The voice I heard through my father’s phone that horrible night when he came home covered in blood and terror, reporting Marco’s death to the man who’d orchestrated it all.
“The wrong one died. I told you Marchetti would be there, but your intelligence was shit—”
My hand freezes halfway to accepting his offered handshake. Blood pounds in my ears so loudly I’m surprised no one else can hear it. This is him. The real murderer. The man who used my father as a pawn, who planned Marco’s death, who destroyed both our families for his own territorial ambitions.
And he’s standing here, greeting me with a warm smile like we’re at a fucking garden party.
“Dr. Conti,” Salvatore says, his blue eyes assessing me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. “What a pleasure to finally meet you. Luca’s been keeping you quite hidden away.”
I force my hand forward, letting him take it. His grip is firm, his palm dry and cool, and touching him makes me want to scrub my skin raw.
“Mr. Romano,” I say, even though I want to run screaming in the other direction. “Thank you for inviting us. Your home is beautiful.”
The words come out steadier than I feel, which is a minor miracle considering my heart is trying to break through my ribs. I can feel Luca’s eyes on me, probably noting my stiffness, and I force myself to breathe normally, to smile politely, to play the role expected of me.
“Please, call me Salvatore.” His smile is wooden and fake. “Any friend of Luca’s is a friend of mine. Though I must say, you’re even lovelier than the rumors suggested. Our Luca is a very lucky man.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I manage, the lie tasting like poison on my tongue.
Salvatore laughs, a practiced sound that probably serves him well in business negotiations.
“Diplomatic and beautiful. No wonder Luca’s been so secretive.
” He finally releases my hand, turning his attention to Luca.
“We should talk later about that shipping arrangement. I have some thoughts on the new routes.”
“Of course,” Luca replies smoothly. “After dinner?”
“Perfect. In the meantime, please, enjoy yourselves. The bar is excellent, the food is better, and the company…” He gestures around the room with false modesty. “Well, we try our best.”
He moves away to greet other guests, and I’m left standing there trying to remember how to breathe normally.
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, hiding the tremor in the folds of my dress.
It’s another designer creation Luca selected, this one royal purple silk that clings to every curve and makes me feel simultaneously beautiful and exposed.
The secret I’ve carried for three years suddenly feels like a bomb in my chest, ticking down toward an explosion I can’t prevent.
This is him. The real murderer. And Luca has no idea.
“You’re trembling,” Luca observes quietly, his hand still at my back. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.” The lie comes out too quickly. “Just nervous. All these people—”
“Are harmless as long as you’re with me.” His fingers press slightly harder against my spine. “Stay close and play your part. That’s all you need to do.”
I nod mutely, not trusting my voice. Because what am I supposed to say?
That man you just shook hands with is the real architect of Marco’s death?
That my father was coerced into betrayal by the man you’re negotiating business with?
That I’ve been carrying proof of this for three years and haven’t told you because I’m terrified of what happens if I do?
The words die unspoken in my throat, choked by fear and self-preservation.
Luca guides me deeper into the crowd, and I force myself to focus on the immediate performance rather than the larger horror. I meet Viktor Torrino again and his daughter Natasha.
“Dr. Conti,” Natasha says with a cool smile. “How lovely to see you again. You look…well.”
The pause before “well” is deliberate, loaded with meaning I don’t want to decode. “Thank you. You look beautiful as always.”
“You’re too kind.” She takes a delicate sip of champagne. “Tell me, how are the wedding preparations going? I imagine planning such an elaborate event must be quite stressful.”
“It’s been an adjustment,” I admit carefully, aware of Luca’s presence beside me. “But Luca’s been very…involved in the process.”
“I’m sure he has.” Something sharp flickers in her expression. “Luca does like to control every detail, doesn’t he? It’s part of his charm.”
I have nothing to say to that, and thankfully Luca whisks me away to be introduced to someone else.
The next hour passes in a similar way. I shake hands with men whose names I recognize from news reports about organized crime, and I smile at women who look at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to jealousy to pity.
And everywhere, I watch Luca command the room with effortless authority.
He moves through the crowd like a king among subjects, his presence demanding deference even from men twice his age with decades more experience.
People part for him automatically, conversations pause when he approaches, and every interaction reinforces the same message: Luca Marchetti is not someone to be crossed.