NORA
My palm slides across the empty sheets, searching for the warmth that should be beside me. All I catch is chilly linen and quiet air. Through the open French doors, the breeze moves over the Tuscan hills, carrying the scent of wild herbs and sun-baked gravel from the driveway below.
I stare up at the arched ceiling and trace the cracks in the stone.
It has been four weeks since Luca packed a single duffel bag and left without a proper explanation.
Just a rushed kiss against my temple, a promise to return soon, and then total silence, leaving me stranded in his compound with his loud family.
Downstairs, an iron skillet bangs against the stove, followed by a theatrical screech that echoes up the stairwell. Matteo is already at it, getting battered by Nonna before the morning coffee even finishes brewing.
Matteo stabs a fork at his plate. "I am telling you, Nonna, the eggs were perfect yesterday. Today they look like they lost a fucking fight."
Nonna doesn't even turn from the stove. She brandishes a wooden spoon like a weapon she's used before. "You criticize my eggs again and I put you on dish duty until Christmas, you ungrateful little shit."
Matteo clutches his chest and collapses into a chair. "She's threatening me with labor. Actual labor. In my own house."
Enzo steals a piece of bread off Matteo's plate without looking up from his phone. "Your face is the labor, cousin. Sit down and suffer quietly."
Matteo throws a balled-up napkin straight at Enzo's head. It hits his temple and drops onto the tabletop. Enzo does not even blink, his thumb flicking across his screen.
Beside him, Sofia hides a soft laugh behind her coffee mug.
Adrian stands right behind her chair, hands clasped behind his back, looking like an immovable statue until his left hand drops.
His knuckles brush against Sofia's shoulder.
Just a quiet, gentle touch, steady and familiar.
Sofia tilts her head back against his knuckles, her eyes crinkling at him, and Adrian's mouth tugs up at the corner into a tiny, rare smile just for her.
When she reaches up, she wraps two fingers around his little finger, pulling him slightly closer against the wood of her chair.
The two of them are not even trying to hide it anymore. Seeing the stoic head of security wrapped around Sofia's little finger makes me grin.
Matteo smirks around a mouthful of toast when he spots me. "Morning, prisoner. Still here. Bold choice."
"Still loud," I continue, grabbing a mug before anyone can poison it. "Bold choice for a man whose face still looks like a bruised, moldy peach."
"It adds character," he insists, wincing as he tilts his chin. "Women pay good money for cheekbones with this kind of dramatic shading."
Matteo reaches for the sugar bowl, wiggling his sore fingers before Nonna whacks his knuckles with her wooden spoon without even turning around.
"Leave the sweets alone." Nonna gives his hand another brisk tap. "You eat real food first."
Matteo cradles his wrist against his chest. "It is an emergency, Nonna. My coffee tastes like despair."
"Drink it in the basement," Enzo suggests without looking up from a soccer clip playing on his screen.
Sofia slides a plate toward me like she's been waiting for the exact second I'd sit. A proper London fry-up: fried eggs, crispy bacon, sausage, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, and a thick slice of buttered toast.
"You don't have to make these every morning," I murmur, though my stomach betrays me with a loud growl.
She smiles the quiet smile that means she absolutely does. "You are Nonna's favorite now, so the special treatment"
The kitchen fills up with the usual morning clatter: Enzo insulting Matteo's life choices, Matteo defending himself with dramatic hand gestures, and Sofia calmly passing around the strawberry jam like a mediator between warring factions.
Beside her, Adrian sits quietly, his arm resting casually across the back of her chair while he finishes his espresso.
Every few seconds Sofia leans sideways to whisper something in his ear, making his stoic expression soften in that familiar way everyone in this house has gotten used to.
Matteo points his butter knife across the table. "Can the lovebirds tone it down? Some of us are trying to nurse real injuries without drowning in romance before noon."
Sofia reaches out to cover Adrian's hand on the table. "You walked into a doorframe yesterday, Matteo. Don't blame your clumsy face on us."
Adrian merely lifts an eyebrow at Matteo, completely unfazed, while Enzo snorts into his coffee mug. "She's right, cousin. You tripped over your own boots."
"Eat your bread," Nonna barks, brandishing her spoon toward the table, and the chatter grinds to a sudden halt under the weight of her scowl.
I chew my toast while staring out the glass doors at the empty yard.
A month ago, right before Luca slipped away, my parents acted weird on our weekly video call.
Dad stood in his restaurant apron, hiding his phone screen, while Mum peered through her glasses and whispered like someone had wiretapped the kitchen.
Tires grind against the stones outside. Heavy iron gates swing wide, and two long sedans roll onto the gravel driveway.
I drop my mug, push back from the table, and march out the tall double doors. My blood heats up with every step down the front staircase, ready to give the missing mafia boss an earful for disappearing for four weeks without a word.
The front door clicks open. Luca steps out onto the dirt in a dark tailored suit. He looks completely composed, but instead of walking up to me, he swings the rear door open and extends a hand.
My mother steps onto the gravel path, adjusting her spectacles and clutching a thick manuscript. "Oliver, look at this yard! A woman could set an entire assassin plot right beside these marble columns!"
"Mum?" I halt in the middle of the drive, blinking against the harsh sun.
My father steps out right behind her, his favorite knife bag tucked under his forearm. "Nora, pumpkin! Your young man spent three solid weeks in my kitchen prep line without a squeak."
Before my mind can register my English family standing on Sicilian soil, the passenger door of the second vehicle pops wide. Amelia falls out into the sun, clutching two thick binders to her chest.
Amelia totters over the uneven ground in low heels, gasping for breath. "Boss! Mr. Moretti settled our quarterly filings, bought out our office lease, and handled that awful yacht man. I have a whole desk set up in the villa wing!"
I whip around to face Luca, arms dropping as my jaw falls slack. "You vanished for a month, packed your bags, and flew to England just to stay with my parents?"
Luca brushes an imaginary thread from his sleeve. "Your father runs his kitchen like a military operation. He made me redo the tortellini four times before he let me leave the counter."
"His knife technique was dreadful at first, Nora," Dad chimes in, checking the blade case under his arm before offering a pleased grin. "Held the handle like a club. But he listened, kept his head down, and chopped twenty pounds of leeks without a word of complaint. That earns respect in my book."
Mum taps Luca's arm with her pen, beaming. "And he edited four chapters of my new thriller. Gave me lovely pointers on how to dispose of an unmarked body without raising red flags at the police."
I stare between them, completely lost. "You won over my mother with body-dumping notes and won over my father with sauce prep?"
Luca steps forward until his boots touch mine. "I did what was necessary. I had to secure their blessing before I asked you to marry me."
My pulse stutters hard. I latch onto his lapels and tilt my head up. "You? The scary head of a crime family went to England to ask my father for permission?"
His palms wrap around my waist while Nonna shouts greetings from the porch. "I do not leave loose threads," he whispers close to my ear. "They gave their word. You are not getting rid of us now."
"Ask me properly tonight," I whisper against his collar, "or I will renegotiate our terms just to make you sweat."
He chuckles low in his chest, pulling me flush against his coat. "There you are."
Dinner turns into an absolute riot of clattering platters, spilling wine, and Nonna aggressively refilling everyone’s plates whether they ask for it or not.
Dad takes over half the stove while Nonna watches him like an eagle, sharing secret recipes until Dad makes it perfectly in one try actually makes her laugh out loud.
Across the long table, Mum grills Matteo and Enzo about mafia crime methods, taking frantic notes on a napkin while Matteo demonstrates fake chokeholds with his butter knife.
Luca sits straight at the head of the table, cutting his meat with smooth, quiet strokes.
Under the heavy white linen, his thigh presses hard against mine, pinning my leg in place.
His hand moves under the cloth, fingers sliding up past the hem of my skirt to dig into the bare skin of my inner thigh.
I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth, but I do not pull away.
Instead, I slide my hand down between us, finding the thick bulge straining against his tailored trousers.
My fingers curl over the hard length of his cock through the fabric.
I give him a slow, firm squeeze, massaging him with measured strokes while my father debates garlic butter with Nonna across the table.
Luca’s hand on my bare leg tightens until his blunt nails bite into my skin.
When he lifts his wine glass and looks right at me over the rim, his dark eyes don't blink, tracking the quick jump of the pulse in my throat while I stroke him into rock-hard agony.
By the time dessert plates clear and the laughter drifts toward the terrace, Luca catches my hand and pulls me upstairs without an ounce of subtlety. The heavy bedroom door clicks shut behind us, locking the chaos out.
I back away with a smirk. "Finally. I thought your Nonna was going to adopt my father and leave us both out of the will."
Luca closes the distance between us without a sound. His hand moves to his waist, the silver buckle clinking once before the thick leather pulls free through the loops with a dry hiss. He coils the strap twice around his knuckles, his dark eyes fixed on mine as my breath catches in my throat.
"Hands behind your back, Nora," he orders, stepping into my space with towering authority. "You spent the entire meal teasing me under the table while your parents sat right there. Now you listen to me."
I obey without a trace of hesitation, putting my wrists together behind my spine. The thick leather loops around my skin, pulling tight enough to anchor me completely. He backs me up until the backs of my knees strike the bed, tipping me back onto the mattress.
I arch my back as he strips my clothes with ruthless precision. "Still demanding control?"
"Always," he growls low, his fingers parting me, sliding into my slick heat with deliberate, aching slowness.
"Fuck," I whimper into the sheets as his mouth covers my neck, biting down hard enough to mark before his fingers drive deeper, making my hips jerk against the restraints. "Luca, please."
He plants his knees on either side of my hips and shoves my thighs wide apart. "Look at me. Tell me who owns this mouth."
"You do," I cry out, trembling from the friction as he pushes inside in one brutal, deep thrust that steals every breath from my lungs. "You do, Luca."
He grips my hips with bruising force, setting a relentless, punishing tempo that rattles the heavy bed frame. Every roll of his hips finds that exact sweet spot, dragging filthy curses and breathless sobs from my throat until my toes curl and my vision blurs into sparks.
He reaches down, quickly undoing the belt around my wrists. As soon as my hands fall free, he captures my left hand, interlacing our fingers against the pillow while he hammers into me, unrelenting and raw.
"Open your eyes, Nora," he demands, voice strained and thick with climax. He reaches into the pocket of his discarded trousers on the side table, his movements sharp and purposeful, never breaking his rhythm inside me.
Cold, heavy metal slides over my ring finger while his hips drive home in one final, shattering plunge.
A brilliant emerald-cut diamond catches the faint moonlight.
Before I can scream, my orgasm tears through me like wildfire, squeezing him so tightly he groans out an oath, shuddering violently as he spills deep inside me.
"Marry me," he growls against my mouth, his sweat dripping onto my collarbone, his thumb pressing the platinum band firmly against my skin. "Tell me yes, Nora. You're never leaving this house."
I sob against his lips, wrapping my aching arms around his neck. "Yes. Yes, you arrogant prick."
After, we lie tangled in sheets that definitely need replacing, the window open to the evening air. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my spine. Mine rest over the scar on his shoulder like they belong there.
His fingers tangle gently in my hair. "You're really staying."
"I'm really staying," I confirm, kissing his bare shoulder.
"Good." He pauses, his thumb brushing along my collarbone. "Nonna already ordered wedding menu. She told me if you left she'd hunt you across Europe herself."
I tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "She has the wooden spoon ready, doesn't she?"
"She had it polished," he confesses with a slight smirk.
"Terrifying. But fucking accurate."
Outside, the family noise settles into the usual evening rhythm. Someone puts music on. Nonna shouts about portion sizes. This Life is stupid and loud but it's ours, and I want to be always same.
I came here unconscious on a private jet. I'm staying awake, eyes open, choosing the mess.
I close my eyes, Luca's heartbeat steady under my palm, and let the house hold us both.
Home, as it turns out, was never the skyline. It was the decision.