Chapter 5
The first thing I notice when I wake is the quiet. Not the kind I grew up with—a tense, watchful silence—but a softer one. I blink up at the unfamiliar ceiling, heart skipping when I remember where I am.
Alessandro’s home. My home now. The sheets are too soft. The mattress too large. Everything too still.
I sit up slowly, rubbing sleep from my eyes, the weight of yesterday settling over my shoulders. The wedding. The vows. The way he told me I would do as I’m told. The shock in my chest when he said the room was mine.
A married woman should be prepared for more. My mother told me that. So did Father. So did every whisper I ever overheard about the duties of a mob wife: compliance, sex, and immediate procreation. And yet… he left me entirely alone.
I don’t know what to do with the relief. It is sharp and immediate, but it clashes violently with the programming that tells me I have already failed. He didn't want me.
When I step into the shower, steam already curling from the vent, I see the neat row of products in the shower.
My breath catches. The sight is an instantaneous, cold return to reality.
The same shampoo. Same conditioner. Same body wash.
Same brand of everything I’ve been using for years.
The ones I hate. The ones that make my skin smell like lilies—my mother’s favorite, not mine.
She always said they “suited” me. That they kept me clean, presentable, proper.
The sight of them here, in Alessandro Moretti’s private sanctuary, makes my stomach twist. Of course she packed them. Of course she prepared my space, meticulously orchestrating the details of my life without asking what I wanted, right down to the scent I would carry into my marriage bed.
Even marriage can’t free me from the details of who they made me.
I wash quickly, avoiding the scent I’ve come to resent.
In the custom walk-in closet, I open the designer bag my mother packed—filled with clothing I didn’t choose, chosen for the role, not the woman. Folds of pale silk tops and modest cashmere skirts. Colors I never liked—muted taupes, soft creams. Necklines that sit too high, hems that fall too low.
Control follows me everywhere, I think bitterly, reaching for a simple, shapeless navy sweater. I didn’t know they’d still have a say after I married. But of course they do. I am a reflection of the Volkov family honor, even when draped in Moretti colors.
The house is so big and so quiet that each step echoes. I keep my hands tucked in front of me, unsure what to touch, where to stand, how a wife is supposed to exist in such a place. I have no instructions, no boundaries, and that freedom is terrifying.
What is my role here? I am not here for love. I am here for peace. But to secure that peace, I must be a good wife. I must find a way to make Alessandro happy, to prove my utility and my worth, so he never feels the need to dissolve this alliance.
I didn’t eat at the wedding. I was too nervous. Now my stomach aches with hunger. I drift down the hall with my hands clasped in front of me, the way I walked through my father’s house for years—quiet, unobtrusive, forgettable.
Old habits follow me like ghosts. Do not touch. Do not ask. Do not inconvenience. The Moretti home is nothing like the Volkov estate, yet the stillness mirrors the one I grew up in.
I search each room for signs of life—a voice, a servant, my husband—but everything is still. The silence presses against my ribs until I can hardly breathe. Then, tucked past a long dining table and through another archway, I see it.
The kitchen.
It is spotless—stone counters, stainless-steel appliances, everything gleaming.
I don’t know if I’m even allowed to cook here—perhaps there are staff—but I need something to do before my thoughts swallow me whole.
So I busy my hands. I find a loaf of artisan bread.
Put two slices in the enormous, expensive toaster.
Turn on the stove for eggs, remembering how my mother's cook always prepared them.
And then… My mind drifts. To Alessandro.
To the way he barely looked at me all night.
To the softness I saw for just a moment on the balcony before it vanished under smoke and shadows.
The smell hits me too late. I whirl around to see thick smoke rising from the toaster.
Before I can react, heavy footsteps strike the floor behind me.
Then his voice cracks through the room—sharp, commanding, the tone of a man used to giving orders that are obeyed immediately.
“What the hell is happening in here?” Alessandro snaps, stepping into the kitchen like he’s entering a battlefield. He is dressed only in a dark pair of sweatpants, his chest bare, his body coiled and ready for conflict. “Smoke? At six in the morning? Are you trying to burn the house down?”
The words hit me like cold water. I freeze. Just like I always do.
“I—I’m sorry—I just wanted to make you breakfast…”
My throat tightens. I grasp for the English, but panic pushes the wrong language through my lips.
?Я надеюсь, что смогу сделать вас счастливым… чтобы вы не отправили меня обратно к отцу.?
I hope I can make you happy so you won’t send me back to my father.
As soon as the words slip out in Russian, shame floods me. I look down.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper in English, head bowing instinctively. “It won’t happen again.”
His footsteps thunder across the floor. I brace myself. But instead of anger, instead of coldness— His hand touches my chin. Gently. So gently that it startles me, the unexpected warmth of his skin against mine stopping my breath completely.
“Elena.” His voice is lower now. Rough, steady, completely devoid of the sharp command of a moment ago.
“I’m sorry I snapped.” My eyes snap up, startled by the apology.
Apologies were only for the weak. He shakes his head once, releasing a slow, weary sigh.
“I had a bad call this morning. It has nothing to do with you. And I’m… not used to a woman being in my house.”
I swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t need to explain.” His thumb brushes lightly against my chin before he lets go. His gaze is intense, piercing, forcing me to hold his stare. “You’re a Moretti now. Morettis are strong. We don’t bow our heads to anyone.”
He pauses, allowing the meaning of the words to sink in, his expression unyielding.
Then, softer—a profound, almost tender undertone in his voice—
“Not even to their stupid husbands.”
Heat prickles behind my eyes. No one has ever spoken to me like that.
“I don’t… know how to be strong,” I confess, voice barely there. “I was never taught.”
His gaze holds mine, unblinking, unwavering. “Then I’ll teach you,” he says. Simple. Certain. Like a promise he intends to keep. And for the first time since I arrived in this house, something deep inside me stirs—not obedience, not fear, but something warm and fragile and new.