Chapter 18
Lucia
I’m standing by the kitchen window like a creeper, watching my husband hang out the load of washing I put on after breakfast.
My husband.
Despite something feeling off about him today, I’m still giddy about that fact.
Throughout my life, I was always aware that the person I’d eventually marry would never be someone of my choosing. Yet here I am. And I have two people to thank for that, my brother-in-law and my sister.
When they showed up in Italy—unannounced, and hellbent on stopping my marriage to Giuseppe Salvatori—they didn’t just pull me out of that gilded cage. With Romeo’s help, they did something far more permanent.
They erased the problem at its root. They wiped my father off the face of the earth.
Freedom, in our world, doesn’t come from asking. It comes from taking. And they gave me that gift, whether I was ready for it or not.
Romeo is currently sorting through the wet clothes in the washing basket so that he can hang everything out in a uniform order. This isn’t the first time I’ve watched him do this.
He places our underwear on the inside of the clothesline, followed by the socks, which he painstakingly hangs in neat rows, in matching pairs. As he makes his way to the outside of the line, our shirts come first before the heavier items, such as jeans, hoodies, and trousers.
My eyes widen when he holds up one of my lace G-strings to the light, staring at it for a short beat before bringing it to his nose.
I gasp, but I’m in no way creeped out by what he just did, quite the opposite.
When he reaches down to adjust his crotch, I can only gather that his move affected him as much as it did me.
When he grabs a few pegs, gently hanging them by the waistband, I release a contented sigh as I place my elbows on the countertop and rest my chin on my hands.
It’s strange the things that make you feel safe.
Not grand gestures or whispered promises, but this.
A man who handles your clothes like they matter.
There’s a rhythm to his movements, a kind of unspoken ritual, like he’s done this a thousand times before.
Knowing what I do about his life before he came here, he probably has. There was no one to care for him back then. No one gave a damn if his clothes were washed and folded, or if he was eating correctly. But that’s all changed because I’m here now, and he’ll always have me.
I’ve never aspired to become a domestic goddess like Arabella. I was forced to do it while living in Italy. I got no satisfaction waiting on my father hand and foot. Not one little bit. I can’t even tell you how many times I considered poisoning his food.
But with Romeo, I don’t do things for him out of duty, or fear, or because someone expects it of me. I do them because I want to. Because I actually like taking care of him. Because he notices. But most importantly, because he’s grateful.
He doesn’t take from me the way my father did. He doesn’t demand a single thing. He lets me be. Somewhere, in the space of freedom, I find myself wanting to give more and do more.
I still don’t enjoy cooking, or folding laundry, or picking hair out of the shower drain. I probably never will. But when I see Romeo doing those things without question, or without being asked, it softens something inside me.
What we have here isn’t about playing house or ticking some domestic box. It’s about creating something that actually feels like home.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re getting there.
I never asked him to hang out the washing; he just did it all on his own.
He was out in the backyard earlier this morning, pacing back and forth, with his phone pressed to his ear. The way his hands moved—sharp and restless—told me whatever he was discussing wasn’t good. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the tension in his shoulders said enough.
When he finally came in for breakfast, he barely spoke. I knew better than to pry. After he ate in silence and cleaned the kitchen like it was something that might hold him together, he took Ki-Ki for a long walk.
And now he’s back out there, pinning up the last of the washing like it’s the only thing he can control.
I’m not sure if he’s trying to clear his head or if he’s just avoiding me.
I’ve been hitched to this hunk of a man for five blissful days now. Life as Mrs De Luca definitely comes with its perks. Every night, I’ve made a point of retiring early, so I could sneak into his bed.
Night two and three, he protested—just like he did the first time—but I think he’s finally given up.
Last night, he didn’t even bother arguing. He just mumbled something unintelligible under his breath before lifting the covers and sliding in beside me.
Like the nights before, I immediately scooted over to his side and unashamedly draped my arm across his waist. My sleepwear is getting skimpier with each passing day, and sometimes—okay, often—I let my hand wander, tracing slow, lazy circles over those delicious abs of his.
Now and then, my fingers dip lower, grazing the edge of his boxers. He pretends to ignore me, but I don’t miss his sharp intake of breath when I do it.
He might not say anything, but his body says enough.
I can’t know for sure if the rest of him is reacting to my touch because it’s dark, and the lower half of his body is hidden under the covers. But given that I’m so hot and bothered by this man, I have to refrain from dry humping his leg to get some relief, I’m going to assume he is.
I have to remember I’m playing the long game here, so unless I spontaneously combust in the interim, I’m not giving up until I wear him down.
Each morning, when I wake, he’s already gone. It makes me wonder if that’s a strategic move on his part. Either way, it doesn’t deter me. If anything, it just makes me more determined.
If you believe you can, you’re halfway there, right?
I remove my wedding ring, bringing it to my mouth so I can give it a chaste kiss. I slip it into my pocket before dialling my sister’s number.
The last thing I want is for Romeo to get in trouble and have Dante pulling him off the job.
“Lu-Lu,” my sister beams as soon as her face appears on my screen. “God, I miss having you here.”
“I miss you too, Bell-Bell, so much.”
“I hope this mess ends soon so you can come home.”
Instead of replying, I force out a smile, despite the tears that now sting the back of my eyes.
I feel conflicted. As much as I miss my family, a part of me hopes they never find Giuseppe.
As long as he’s still out there, Romeo and I will remain in this house.
In our safe little bubble, living together as husband and wife … kind of.
Fake marriage or not, I’m keeping this man; he just doesn’t know it yet.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay,” I tell her honestly. “How are you? You’re glowing, Arabella. Motherhood definitely agrees with you. How is my baby niece?”
I want to know the answers to those questions, but I’m also trying to steer the conversation away from me. I’m scared I’ll slip up and say something incriminating if we talk about me or my time here.
“She is my greatest achievement, Lu,” she replies. “I never allowed myself to dream my life would be this … wonderful. I never in a million years thought I’d be this happy.”
“I’m happy you have this life, Bell-Bell … and Dante. You devoted all your younger years to caring for me. You deserve everything you have now.”
“I have the best husband,” she admits. I could argue that point, mine is pretty incredible, but I can’t speak my truth, and I hate that.
My sister and I have always told each other everything, both good and bad. Our father was a narcissistic arsehole who constantly twisted reality to protect himself, lying to cover his tracks and blaming others, especially us, for the damage he caused. We swore we’d never lie to each other.
I’m not exactly lying by not telling her about my nuptials. I’m merely omitting the truth to protect the man I love.
I hope that if and when it all comes to light, she’ll understand why I kept this from her. I know for a fact she’d move mountains to protect her husband. That’s just who she is. She gave up so much when we were kids to keep me safe.
“Look at this face,” Arabella says, turning the screen so I can see. Caterina is lying on the change table, her tiny arms and legs kicking in every direction.
I lean in closer to my phone. “I swear she gets squishier every single day.”
“I know,” my sister laughs. “You should see the little fat rolls on her legs. They’re too much. Her daddy completely melts over them. Doesn’t he, baby girl?” she coos lovingly.
“Oh my God, show me.”
“What do I melt over?” Dante says, coming up behind my sister and wrapping his arms around her. I sigh when he lovingly kisses her cheek.
“Her leg rolls.”
He chuckles. “They’re fuc—fudging adorable.”
“Fudging?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Turning his attention to Arabella’s phone, he smiles. “Hey, Luc. Your sister gives me hell if I swear in front of Caterina.”
“As she should,” I say, grinning.
He smirks. “When did you become a traitor?”
I laugh. “Probably around the time I fell in love with that tiny marshmallow you two made.”
Dante grins as he commandeers his wife’s phone, freeing her hands. He peers over her shoulder to get a better look at his daughter.
“Those thighs,” he groans. “She’s like our very own Michelin baby.”
Arabella snorts as they share a look, and I’m again left feeling like I’m on the outside looking in. “She’s growing so fast. I swear she looks different every day.”
There’s a moment of quiet on my end. My chest tightens in that familiar, aching way. The kind you get when you feel like you’re missing out on something significant.
“I swear if you don’t show me those little fat rolls, I’m going to break out of this prison, hijack a car, and come see them for myself.”
Arabella laughs, the sound light and unguarded. “Don’t tempt me. You know I’d open the door and let you in, consequences be damned.”
“Ignore your sister, Lucia,” Dante growls. “You need to stay where you are … where it’s safe. I’ll bring you home soon, I promise.”
A knot forms in my throat. “I know,” I mumble. “It was a joke.”
Arabella rolls her eyes at her husband, but when she turns her attention back to me, her voice softens. “He’s right, but like I said before, it’s not the same without you here, Lu-Lu.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my smile from slipping. “Yeah, well … I’d probably just end up crying all over her and freaking her out.”
“She puked on me this morning,” Dante admits. “She’s lucky I love her; men have lost their lives for less.”
Arabella nudges him playfully, then points the phone back towards Caterina. “Alright, prepare yourself. Here come the rolls.”
The camera shifts and focuses in, and there they are, those impossibly tiny, dimpled legs, folded like warm dough. She’s kicking at the air without a care in the world.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, something sharp and tender catching in my throat. I quickly snap a screenshot, already knowing where it’ll go, into the folder I created the day I arrived here.
It’s become my quiet little sanctuary. A digital diary of everything I’m holding on to. Screenshots from video calls with Arabella, and all the cuteness of Caterina. Arabella is right; she’s growing so fast, which is evident when I scan through the images.
There are so many of Romeo in there, too. Some are blurry, others were caught with perfect clarity. Quiet, candid moments I managed to steal when he wasn’t paying attention. When the mask slipped and he let his guard down just enough to show who he really is beneath all that bravado.
Not the underboss, just Romeo the man. Thoughtful. Tired. Sometimes kind. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop taking them. Those images feel more real than anything else around me. Like little truths I’m not supposed to see, but can’t help holding on to anyway.
Romeo’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth when Ki-Ki suddenly starts barking in the backyard. It’s sharp and insistent and not his usual bark. A minute later, my heart stutters at the sound of a loud knock on the front door.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He drops his cutlery with a clatter and pushes his chair back. “Stay here,” he says, reaching behind himself and pulling out a gun.
My eyes widen. “You brought your gun to the dinner table?”
“We’re in the middle of a war, Lucia,” he replies, rolling his eyes like I’ve asked him something ridiculous. “If that war finds us, I doubt they’ll let me go to my room and retrieve it. It’s called being prepared. It’s called staying alive.”
Things have escalated, and I only know this because my brother-in-law called Romeo in the middle of the night, and I just happened to be lying beside him when he answered his phone.
Three of their men had been brutally executed at the hands of Giuseppe Salvatori.
The second call came two hours later. One of the Famiglia’s restaurants had just been firebombed.
Is the person, or persons, responsible currently knocking on our front door?
Romeo crosses the room quickly, every move sharp with focus, but before he disappears down the hallway, he turns, stalks back to me, and tugs me to my feet.
“Go into the bedroom and lock the door. Pull up Dante’s number on your phone, and if you hear anything … gunfire, shouting, anything, you call him. Do not,” he says, his voice dropping low and becoming deadly serious, “leave that fucking room under any circumstances. You hear me?”
I nod; my throat too tight to speak.
“Good girl,” he says, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to my forehead. When he draws back, his eyes hold mine for a beat too long, as if he’s memorising my face or silently begging me to understand just how real this is. “Go.”
I turn and rush towards the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, but when the sound comes again, the thud, thud, thud, loud and threatening against the front door, I freeze.
I desperately want to do what Romeo instructed me to do, but that’s not me.
Following orders has never been in my blood. Breaking rules is practically stitched into my DNA. I know, he’s trying to protect me, but if something were to happen to him …
If I hid behind a locked door like a coward, while he bled out on the floor, I’d never forgive myself.
Not in this lifetime.
Not in any.
I’d rather go down beside him—bloodied with my heart wide open—like some fucked-up Mafia version of Romeo and Juliet.