"Your father made the same mistake. Fell for a woman, let her become his weakness. It got him killed." Don Marco doesn't look up from his paper. "Don't make me bury you next to him."
The words hit harder than they should. My father died when I was eight. Shot in the street by men who knew exactly how to hurt him. My mother followed six months later.
Don Marco's made his point.
I leave the social club and walk back to my car. The morning is getting brighter with traffic picking up and the city moving through its routines. My phone buzzes with messages about the Bratva, about our operations, about a dozen fires that need putting out.
I ignore all of it.
Marriage. The word sits strange in my head. I've never thought about it, never wanted it, never saw the point. But Don Marco is right. It's the smart play. Spousal privilege, family protection, a public claim that marks her as untouchable in a way that just keeping her in my penthouse never will.
And it binds her to me in a way she can't escape.
The drive back to Tribeca takes longer than it should. Rush hour is hitting and I sit in traffic thinking about how to handle this. Francesca is smart enough to see the strategic advantage and practical enough to understand the danger she's in. But she's also stubborn enough to refuse just to maintain some illusion of control.
I'll break that illusion.
By the time I get back to the penthouse, the morning has burned away into late morning. The private elevator takes me up. The doors open. The smell of coffee hits me first. Then I hear movement in the kitchen.
She's awake.
Walking into the kitchen, I stop in the doorway. Francesca is standing at the counter dressed but her hair still messy from sleep. She's barefoot and the shirt barely covers her thighs. For a moment I just watch her move through my space like she belongs here.
She looks up when she senses my presence and goes very still. She's reading my face.
"What happened?" she asks.
I cross the kitchen and take the coffee pot from her hands. I set it down and turn her to face me.
"They know about you," I say. "All of them."
Her face pales. "The other families?"
"Yes. The Bratva sent that soldier last night as a message. Don Marco knows you're here. By tomorrow, everyone who matters in this city will know I have a woman." I keep my hands on her shoulders, holding her steady. "That makes you a target."
"So what now?" Her voice is quiet but controlled. She's scared but she's not panicking.
Good. I need her clear-headed for this.
"Now I make sure you're untouchable." I tighten my grip slightly. "By making you officially mine. My wife."
The words hang in the air between us.
She goes very still. Stops breathing for a moment. Then she takes a slow, deliberate breath. "Marriage." Not a question. Just the word, testing how it sounds. How it feels.
"You heard me. We're getting married."
"You're insane." She tries to pull away but I don't let her. "You can't just decide we're getting married."
"I just did."
"Luca, this is crazy. Marriage is supposed to be about love and choosing each other, not about mob politics and protection."
"This is both," I say flatly. "I'm choosing you. I chose you the moment I saw you in that ER. The protection is strategic. That doesn't make it less real."
"You're choosing me the way someone chooses a possession."
"You are my possession." I cup her face with both hands. "But you're also mine in every way that matters. And I protect what's mine. Always."
