Page 32 of The Hidden Heir

“You’re not angry?”

“Frankly, I’m just happy to know you and my nephew are safe. Besides, Luca’s a great catch.” She laughs lightly, yet I still sense the hint of sadness in her tone as she turns her head. “Isn’t he?”

I follow her gaze. By most descriptors, Luca Petrucci is a dream. Aging like a fine wine, powerful and determined, ambitious and ruthless at the head of a dangerous Camorra family. Successful, handsome, impossible to say no to. I can see why most women would fawn over him, including Caroline.

But given the circumstances of our union, I refuse to acknowledge any of the good parts, so I grunt softly. “He’s a monster,” I say with a low voice. “They’re all monsters, Caroline.”

“We’re born from monsters,” she replies. “What does that make us?”

“I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of it.”

“Well, you got it,” she says. “Accept it. Or it will eat you up on the inside. This is it. You’re Mrs. Petrucci now. Protected. A queen with a throne of her own. You’re not the chubby misfit Peroni girl nobody knew where to put.”

I stare at her in disbelief. The words slipped out with such ease that I cannot ignore the malice hidden beneath. Caroline notices my dismay and laughs lightly.

“Oh, come on. Everybody knows you’re not exactly a powerful man’s first choice for marriage. It’s why Stefano treated you the way he did.”

“Caroline, if you ever want to see Michael or a merger deal signed with the Petrucci syndicate in this lifetime, I suggest you apologize to my wife immediately.”

Luca’s voice cuts through the background noise. It’s loud and deep, like an axe cutting into a tree trunk. He stands beside us, and I didn’t even hear him coming. My blood rushes as I look at him, then at my flustered stepsister, before I realize the entire wedding party heard our exchange.

“Luca…”

“My wife is my queen,” he says, louder still. His hand slips around and locks onto my waist, pulling me close. I find odd comfort in his presence while simultaneously pushing away memories of my teenage years. This isn’t the first jab Caroline has delivered regarding my figure. “Her curves are perfect, precisely the way a woman should be. She gave my family a child, and as of today, she bears my name and my ring.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“But you did,” Luca says, interrupting Caroline. “And it’s the mark of a weak woman. Of a jealous and bitter woman. It’s not a good look on you, Caroline. Show some grace.”

She lowers her gaze, and I see the muscle twitching furiously in her jaw. Her cheeks are almost as red as her dress, which hugs her bony figure as she struggles to breathe in my husband’s intense presence.

“Forgive me, Valentina,” she says with a trembling voice, then gives Luca a weak smile. “It was just sisterly talk, but I forgot she’s not just my sister anymore. She’s also your wife.”

Luca doesn’t need to say anything else. Caroline knows it’s time for her to make a graceful exit to avoid further humiliation. So she steps closer and plants a kiss on my cheek, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Be very careful,” she whispers in my ear. “If you lie with monsters, you become one.”

She steps back and slowly makes a quiet exit through the terrace doors leading inside the house. Soon, Caroline will be back at the Mancuso mansion, licking her wounds.

Luca keeps me close. “You look beautiful,” he says.

It sounds genuine. It feels honest. But I’m supposed to be angry, unwilling, petulant as I should be, so I reply with a scoff.

Later, the remainder of the wedding party gathers around the gift table, where a pile of boxes wrapped in shimmering paper and tied with elegant bows awaits. Michael is already upstairs in my room, with Susie looking after him. It’s late, and my boy needs his full sleep. In the meantime, I grow increasingly anxious knowing that I’m spending the night in Luca’s bedroom.

Our bedroom now.

But until then, I can distract myself with more champagne and wedding presents. My one silver lining for tonight.

“I see the Camorra has been as generous as always,” Luca comments upon opening one of the boxes to reveal a gorgeous set of wine, champagne, and whiskey glasses. “Thank you, Johnny.”

“It’s my pleasure. I had it delivered directly from the Venice workshop, mind you,” Johnny replies.

“Venice Beach?” Carmine asks, looking somewhat confused.

Johnny shakes his head. “No, Venice, Italy. What the hell, man? That’s classic, original Murano glass!”

“They’re truly superb,” I tell the Mancini boss. “Thank you so much.”