The concern seemed genuine, and for a moment, I allowed myself to lean into it. To imagine this was real—that I was truly his wife, that he truly cared.
But as I stared out the window, my stomach twisted with something beyond morning sickness. Adriana's warnings. Luca's secrets. Unknown enemies circling.
I wasn't free. I wasn't safe.
I never really had been, and although a strange relief had come with marrying Luca and seeing another side of the city, deep down I knew nothing had really changed. I was still a prisoner, only now my keeperknew how to set my body on fire with just a look. And this prison might be holding more than just me.
I had resources Luca didn't know about. Along with the burner phone, I'd kept the skills my father had drilled into me before illness weakened him—not just languages and etiquette, but practical survival tools.A Moretti must never depend entirely on others for protection,he'd said, teaching me everything from lock-picking to basic electronics. There were three contacts I could trust who'd served him before Giuseppe seized control during his decline.
If I was going to confirm what I suspected, I needed supplies. Medical tests. Privacy. And I needed them before Luca discovered what might be growing inside me.
Because if my suspicions were correct—if I was carrying the heir to both the Romano and Moretti empires—everything was about to change.
A Romano-Moretti child would be the ultimate prize. Or the ultimate target.
And I was the only one who could protect us both.
CHAPTER 7
Luca
Blood spattered across the concrete floor as Tony Vassallo's head snapped back from another punch. I circled him slowly, leather gloves protecting my knuckles, not his face.
"Let's try again," I said, voice deadly calm. "Who are you working with?"
The former bartender spat blood onto the floor of the club's basement storage room. His left eye had swollen shut, and his breath came in pained gasps.
"I told you," he mumbled through split lips. "Nobody. I just talk shit when I'm drunk."
The security footage playing on the laptop showed otherwise. Tony, huddled in conversation with a shadowy figure in the alley behind my club. The timestamp: three days ago.
I nodded to Marco, who stepped forward and grabbed Tony's hair, yanking his head back.
"Lying to me isn't a mistake you get to make twice," I said, pulling a knife from my jacket. The blade gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights. "Who. Are. You. Working. With?"
Terror flooded Tony's remaining good eye. "Please, boss. I swear, I don't know his name. He approached me after you fired me. Said he knew things. Said we could make money together."
I pressed the tip of the blade against the soft spot below his jaw, where the thrum of his pulse was visible. "What things did he know, Tony?"
"About you and the Moretti girl," he gasped. "Said your marriage was bullshit. Said you two hated each other. That it was all for show."
Ice slid down my spine. "What else?"
"That's it, I swear! He just wanted me to watch the club, tell him who comes and goes. Said he'd pay me for information."
Something about Tony's story didn't add up. He was too small, too insignificant to be the mastermind. Just a pawn in someone else's game.
"This man," I pressed. "What did he look like?"
"I never saw his face. Always wore a hood, kept to the shadows."
"Voice? Accent? Height? Build? Give me something, Tony."
"Tall. Broad. Spoke like he was educated." His breathing grew labored. "But he knew things, boss. Specific things about the Moretti family. Called your wife'la principessa'like he'd known her since she was a kid. And he mentioned her uncle by name—Giuseppe."
Tony's voice dropped to a whisper. "He showed me a photo once, boss. Your wife as a little girl, maybe eight or nine, standing next to Giuseppe Moretti at some family gathering. Said he'd been watching the family for years, waiting for the right moment. Themarriage—your marriage—wasn't part of his original plan, but he adapted."
That confirmed my worst fears. The enemy wasn't just watching from outside—he was already here, among my people.
