My hands shake so badly I can barely hold it steady.
This is insane.
People don’t get forced into marriage in the twenty-first century.
There have to be laws, protections, someone who can help.
Except the kind of men who burn down veterinary clinics and beat up gambling addicts don’t tend to worry much about laws.
The fourth time I pick up the phone, I dial before I can talk myself out of it.
My ribs throb with each breath, a reminder of what happens when I fight back.
But I have to know.
I have to hear Luca’s voice and know that Dad is still alive.
It rings twice before his voice fills my ear, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
“Giuliana.” His voice caresses the syllables of my name.
My throat feels like it’s closing up. “I accept.”
There’s a pause, and I swear I can almost hear him smiling. “Wise choice. My driver will pick you up tomorrow morning at eight. Bring one suitcase. Everything else from your previous life stays behind.”
The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone for a long moment before setting it carefully on the counter.
I’ve just agreed to marry a monster to save my father’s life.
Except I don’t even know if I succeeded. Luca didn’t mention Dad.
He didn’t confirm he was alive.
He didn’t offer any reassurance beyond the original deal we made.
I press my palm against the counter, my other hand clutching my ribs as panic rises in my throat.
What if it’s already too late?
What if I just sold my freedom for nothing?
The rain pounds harder against my windows, and I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning.
That whatever Luca Marchetti has planned for me is going to be far worse than I can imagine.
Somewhere in the darkness, my father is either alive and suffering or dead because I couldn’t save him.
4
LUCA
The security footage from Giuliana’s clinic explosion plays one final time across my laptop screen, each frame more beautiful than the last.
The controlled demolition unfolds in high-definition clarity—gas lines severed in exactly the right sequence, accelerants deployed perfectly, and ignition timed to the second.
My men are artists when it comes to destruction, and watching two years of her life’s work collapse into rubble and twisted metal fills me with delight.
Perfect execution. Perfect timing. Perfect results.
