Chapter 9 Luca
I'm sitting in my study at three in the morning, staring at a glass of whiskey I haven't touched. When we arrived back at the villa, I was quickly called away on business. When I returned thirty minutes ago, she was already sound asleep in our bed.
So here I sit, all alone in the dark, thinking about my new wife.
Not in a romantic way. In a tactical way.
She thinks I didn’t notice her watching me today in the Pantheon. She’s wrong.
The temple has a way of making a man feel small, and I’ve spent most of my life making damn sure I’m the biggest thing in any room. But under that dome, I saw her looking at me instead of the ceiling.
On the street afterward, I kept my hand at the small of her back. Not because she needed guiding through the crowd, but because I wanted to feel her there.
The gelato was a test. My thumb to her lip was another. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blush like an untouched bride. She looked at me like she might do something reckless with her mouth right there in the fucking street. I filed that thought away for later.
The pizza on the steps was another test. When she burned her fingers, let me take the slice, and then feed it back to her. She leaned in close to me without hesitation. That told me plenty.
And then the fountain.
I saw the pickpocket before she did, and was already trying to alert Paolo to grab the girl when my wife decided to spring. She didn’t freeze, didn’t scream for help.
Fuck, no.
She ran like someone who’s done it many times before.
Shoulder turns, cuts through the crowd, anticipating the target’s moves.
Hell, I’ve had soldiers who couldn’t track a mark that clean.
She knew where the girl was headed and got there first. Then she pinned the kid down, yelled at her in slang you don’t learn in finishing school, and didn’t blink at the knife.
Something about the knife still bothers me.
I’ve seen men twice her size back off when they see a switchblade. She didn’t even slow down. Which means she didn’t miss it—she assessed it. That’s muscle memory. Not a move learned in an eight-hour self-defense class.
At the café, I didn’t talk at first. She drank her water like she really needed it. And every swallow, every flicker of her pulse under that delicate skin, made me think about last night. Her body under me, hands fisting in the sheets.
I started asking questions about self-defense classes. A conveniently closed gym. She lied smoothly, but there’s no doubt she lied.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s the rhythm of bullshit.
Then I put my hand over hers. Felt her freeze, but not from fear. Heat, maybe. Defiance. I let my thumb drag over the inside of her wrist to feel her pulse. Too fast to be calm, too steady to be scared.
She tried to make it all about the phone. I tried to make it all about her safety and the knife. Because it was never about either of those things.
The truth?
I liked watching her run. I liked watching her take the girl down.
It fucking turned me on.
But I can’t decide if that’s because she’s dangerous… or because she’s mine.
I told her to stay close. Not a suggestion. A rule I mean for her to follow.
And when she said she’d still break fingers if someone grabbed her ass, I almost smiled.
Almost.
Because I believe her. And because the thought of her defending herself makes something low in my gut tighten in a way it shouldn’t.
The wine came and she drank too much of it in one go, as if she needed the burn to hold her together. And I let her drink it, because loose tongues tell truths.
I kept my knee against hers under the table the whole time. I wanted to see if she’d pull away. She didn’t. She stayed, anchored there like maybe she liked it.
By the time Paolo came back with word of a quieter table, I’d already decided, she’s hiding something big.
But she’s also the most interesting thing I’ve touched in years.
When I stood from the table, I offered her my hand. She took it without hesitation and her palm fit perfectly against mine.
The more I think about yesterday, the more questions I have. And in my line of work, too many questions about someone close to you is never a good thing.
What else don’t I know about her?
I drain the whiskey and head upstairs. She’s still asleep, sprawled across most of the bed like she owns it. Yesterday morning she was careful, controlled. Now she's taking up space like someone who's used to sleeping alone in places where you need to be ready to move fast.
Interesting.
I shower and dress quietly, watching her in the mirror. Even asleep, she doesn't look peaceful. She looks alert. Like she's listening for something.
Downstairs, I find Rosa in the kitchen, already prepping breakfast. She's been with our family for twenty years. Knows everything that happens in this house.
"Morning, Rosa," I say, pouring coffee. "How's the new lady of the house settling in?"
Rosa glances up from the stove. "Good, I hope. She's... different than I expected, Mr. Luca."
"Different how?"
"Yesterday she came down here while you were on that conference call. Started talking to me like we were old friends." Rosa shakes her head. "Asked about my family, my grandson's school. Most wives, they give orders or they ignore the staff completely."
"Anything else?"
"She speaks differently when you're not around. More casual. Uses her hands when she talks." Rosa turns back to the stove. "And she asked about the security cameras."
That stops me cold. "What about them?"
"Where they were located. How the system worked. Said she wanted to feel safer, but..." Rosa shrugs. "Seemed like an odd thing for a new bride to worry about."
Security cameras. Of course, she'd want to know where they are. The question is why.
"Thanks, Rosa. Don't mention this conversation to anyone."
"Of course not, Mr. Luca."
I take my coffee to the terrace and think. Sofia asking about security could be innocent. Could also be suspicious as hell.
In my world, you learn to pay attention to patterns.
My phone buzzes with a text from Paolo: "Tony's guy is available to start bodyguard detail for Mrs. Romano today. Want me to set it up?"
I text back: "Not yet. I want to watch her first."
Because if Sofia's gathering information about my family's operations, I need to know what she's looking for. And why.
Twenty minutes later, she appears on the terrace wearing a sundress and sandals, hair still damp from the shower. She looks like any other wealthy young wife enjoying her morning coffee.
Except for the way her eyes automatically scan the garden perimeter before she sits down.
"Morning," she says, kissing my cheek. "Did you sleep okay?"
"Fine. You?"
"Like a rock." She settles into the chair across from me and reaches for the coffee pot. "What's the plan for today?"
"I've got some business to handle. Thought you might want to explore the house. Get familiar with everything."
Her face lights up. "Really? I'd love that."
"Rosa can show you around. Help you get oriented."
"That's perfect."
Too perfect. She's practically vibrating with excitement at the chance to wander around my house unsupervised.
"There are a few areas that are off-limits," I add casually. "My study, the basement office, that kind of thing. Family business."
"Of course," she says quickly. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
But I catch the way her eyes flick toward the French doors leading back inside. She's already thinking about doing something she shouldn’t.
I stand up. "I should get going. Meeting starts in an hour."
"Drive safe," she says, but her mind is elsewhere.
I kiss her goodbye and head for my car, then double back through the side entrance. If Sofia wants to explore, I'm going to watch her.
I position myself out of sight and pull up the cameras through an app on my phone. The cameras are everywhere. And Sofia's about to find out exactly where.
She starts in the living room, moving slowly, taking everything in. At first glance, it looks like normal curiosity. New wife getting familiar with her surroundings.
But I've been trained to watch for tells. And Sofia's got them.
She checks under furniture for hidden compartments. Runs her fingers along picture frames looking for concealed devices. Tests door handles to see which rooms are locked.
This isn't feminine curiosity. This is reconnaissance.
When she gets to my study, she tries the handle. Locked, of course. She reaches up and produces something from her hair. A goddamn hairpin. Within thirty seconds, the door's open and she slips inside, closing it quietly behind her.
What the fuck.
Sofia Arcari just picked the lock on my study. The same Sofia who told me last month she couldn't even open a pickle jar without help.
She closes the door behind her. I watch her move through the room systematically. She doesn't touch my desk or rifle through papers
The camera angle catches her scanning then her eyes cut to the corner where my locked liquor cabinet sits. Heavy glass doors, brass lock. Not meant for prevent burglary. Just enough to keep the cleaning staff from pouring Cristal into soda.
She kneels in front of it, hair falling over her shoulder, and pulls the hairpin again. Two clicks and it’s open. The way she handles that lock, she’s done more than jewelry clasps and diary keys. She’s fast. Too fast.
She sits cross-legged on the floor and studies the bottles like they’re artifacts in a museum she’s decided belongs to her. Runs her fingers over the labels — Macallan 72, Brora 40, an unopened Dalmore 62 that could buy her a car if she sold it right.
She stops at the Dalmore. Tilts the bottle in her hands, reading the etched glass, the way you do when you’re weighing whether something tastes as good as the price tag says it should. Then she smiles and casually breaks the seal.
I can’t believe it.
There’s not a single man in Italy who has the fucking balls to break the seal on one of my bottles without permission.