Chapter 8 Mara
MARA
The jolt of the landing gear wakes me—soft at first, then sharper when the wheels hit the tarmac with a low, grating screech. My eyes peel open.
The plane is dimly lit, a soft glow lining the small room. I must’ve fallen asleep somewhere over the Atlantic.
“Up.” His voice is low. Unforgiving.
I blink blearily, and there he is standing in front of me, already back in control. Jacket off, sleeves rolled. Every inch of him looks like power dressed in pressed white cotton.
“I was sleeping,” I mumble, stretching once, slow and lazy on purpose.
“We’ve landed.” He holds out something: his jacket. Black. Expensive. Still warm. “Put this on.”
I blink at it, then at him. “No, thanks. I’m not cold.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lower his hand. “It’s not about that.”
“Well, I don’t want it.”
His jaw tics once, twice. Then he steps in, too close. One of his hands grabs my chin—not roughly, but firmly. Like he’s handling something delicate that could also bite.
His grip lifts my face so I have no choice but to look at him. His green eyes, darker than before, are ringed with something unreadable. Exhaustion maybe. Restraint, definitely.
“Put the fucking thing on.”
My breath hitches. The edge of his voice slices clean through my next comeback. The fight rises up in my throat and burns behind my tongue, but I swallow it. Barely.
I take the jacket from his hand and shove my arms into it. It swallows me instantly. Warm. Heavy. Smells like him: cologne and spice and something faintly smoky. I hate how safe it feels.
His gaze holds mine for a beat longer than necessary. Then he turns and walks ahead of me, not waiting. Of course.
I pull the jacket tighter anyway.
Outside, it’s colder than expected. The sky’s a sick shade of gray, clouds low and angry. There’s a storm coming.
I follow him down the steps, careful on the wet stairs. The private strip is empty, save for a few suit-clad men and a long white car waiting like something from an old mafia movie.
One of the men—tattoos, massive, wearing black-on-black—greets Nicolo with a handshake and a nod. Their voices murmur low in Italian. Nicolo’s voice is rougher in his native tongue, each syllable clipped and final. I can’t understand it, but I don’t care.
I like listening to him like this. He sounds…dangerous. And right.
They exchange a few words too fast for me to catch, but Nicolo doesn’t spare me even a glance. He finishes whatever he’s saying and heads toward the waiting car.
When I follow silently, the door is opened for me. I slide in and press my forehead to the cold glass, watching the crumbling runway disappear behind us as the car rolls forward. Italy is gray and moody outside, rolling hills and old stone roads blurred by the speed of the car.
I keep my eyes on the road, but it’s his voice I listen to. Still speaking Italian. Low and deliberate, like everything that comes out of his mouth could start or end a war.
His jacket is heavy on my shoulders; I pull it tighter around myself. And wonder why I feel safer in it than I ever have in my own skin.
The silence in the car isn’t comfortable. It’s thick. Measured.
I don’t say anything, just watch the world smear past the window like a watercolor: olive groves, jagged hills, endless stretches of green turned dull under the storm-gray sky. I think I’ll like it here.
Nicolo speaks up, surprising me. His voice is quiet, but there’s nothing soft about it.
“I don’t care if you hate me.”
I turn slightly, eyes dragging to him. He’s looking just ahead, not at me, his elbow resting against the door, fingers brushing his lower lip like he’s bored. But I know better.
“You’ll follow the rules I give you. You don’t leave the grounds unless I say so. You don’t talk to anyone unless they talk to you first. And you don’t wander off.”
My throat tightens. “So, prison. But with better scenery.”
He turns his head, finally meeting my eyes. “Call it what you want. I’m not here to entertain your rebellion. You want to throw tantrums? Fine. But you’ll still listen.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, pulse ticking just beneath my jaw. “Do I get a list of rules, or are you going to just bark at me as you go?”
His gaze dips to my lips for half a second. A flicker. Then it’s gone. “You’ll know the rules when you break them.”
“Right.” I turn back to the window, voice lower. “Classic dictator logic.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just exhales slow and deep, like he’s resisting something. After a beat, he speaks again.
“You’ll have your own room. Anything you want, ask the staff. Don’t come to me for things you can get yourself.” Another pause. “Except safety. That’s my responsibility now.”
I don’t reply, but my hands tighten in his jacket. Because the way he says safety—like it’s sacred, like it’s a blood promise—lands somewhere deep. Somewhere that’s still bruised.
The car pulls up along the stone driveway, the tires crunching softly over gravel.
The Castello looms ahead—grand, ancient, and almost impossibly beautiful.
Ivy clings to its outer walls like veins, crawling up the marble columns and wrapping around the balconies like nature itself refuses to let go.
It’s surreal. Regal in a way that doesn’t feel real. The second the engine cuts, the door is pulled open by one of Nicolo’s men. I blink against the light as I step out. The air is warmer here than expected, fresh and tinged with the earthy scent of cypress and the sea.
Three women in tailored black—two younger, one older—stand to the right. The elder of the three has silver-threaded hair pinned back in an elegant twist and eyes that have seen everything. She looks at me like she already knows all my secrets.
“Bongiorno,” I say, quietly.
She nods once, gracious but unreadable.
On the opposite side, three men wait as well.
One is the chef, I think. The faint scent of flour and herbs clings to his apron even from here.
Another is tall and lean with calculating eyes and a radio clipped to his belt—probably security.
The last one, in gardening boots and rolled sleeves, stands respectfully behind them both, hands clasped in front of him.
Behind them all, fifteen other men stand strategically around the Castello grounds, dressed in dark suits. Silent. Alert. Watching.
Nicolo says nothing to any of them. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look back. Just strides up the grand stone staircase like a king returning home, shoulders squared and jaw tight.
I feel the weight of eyes on me, but force my legs to move, trailing behind him. Every step echoes off the polished marble, bouncing against the high arches and columns.
I don’t know what I expected. Something warmer, maybe. Or maybe just acknowledgment. But Nicolo doesn’t stop. At the top of the steps, he glances over his shoulder briefly.
“Inside. I don’t have all day.” His voice is low, cool, and deliberate.
The hall inside the Castello is absurd. Grand. Echoing. Every surface gleams like it’s been scrubbed with diamonds, and the gilded molding on the walls catches the pale light slanting in from the towering windows. I can hear our footsteps like thunder in a cathedral.
Nicolo walks slightly ahead, silent and sure. Like this is routine. Like he’s done this a thousand times. He doesn’t look at me as he leads me through the maze of marble, dark wood, and velvet drapery. Past curved staircases, chandeliers heavy with crystal, and closed doors.
We stop at the end of a long hall. He swings the tall door open without a word, revealing a bedroom that doesn’t look like it belongs in this century.
A massive bed sits in the middle—four-poster, draped in silk.
The mirrors are framed in gold, and there’s a fireplace the size of my bedroom back in New York.
It’s the kind of room you’d expect a queen to sleep in.
Or a hostage with very expensive taste.
He turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say.
He pauses in the doorway, but doesn’t face me. “What?”
“Are there any shopping malls around here?”
That gets his attention.
He turns, brows arching just slightly like I’ve said something deeply stupid. “The closet’s already set for you.”
“I’m not wearing anything someone else picked out for me.”
His jaw shifts and something sparks in his eyes, equal parts impressed and annoyed.
After a beat, he nods. “After lunch.”
I stare at his back as he starts to leave again. “Where’s your room?”
He stops again, this time turning to give me a full look—an incredulous one. Like he’s not sure if I’m being serious or just playing.
“Across the hall.”
I grin, waggling my brows. “Convenient.”
His eyes narrow just slightly. “Don’t come near it.”
“Scared you won’t be able to resist me?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Scared you’ll end up where you don’t belong.”
The air stretches between us for a second, humming with tension.
Then, colder this time, he adds, “There are places in this house you’re not allowed. My room. My office. And the library.”
“The library?” I blink. “Seriously?”
“You’ll stay out of all three.” His voice is quiet, but iron-clad. Final.
“Right,” I mutter under my breath. “So much for hospitality.”
He doesn’t smile. Just takes one last look at me in the center of the opulent room that somehow feels more like a cage than a sanctuary.
Then the door shuts with a quiet click behind him. And I am alone. Again.
But I’ve already memorized the way back to the stairs.
Lunch is a boring, silent affair. No one speaks to me as I sit perched at the massive marble island in the center of the kitchen, dragging a few strands of spaghetti around my plate like I’m tracing invisible patterns.
The pasta’s good—perfectly al dente, sauced just right—but I can’t bring myself to eat more than a few bites.
My stomach’s too knotted. Too wired with a mix of nerves, resentment, and curiosity I don’t want to name.