The rain had just begun when the garden lights came on, bathing the lawn in a golden, dreamlike glow. Aria hated how beautiful it looked—this place that wasn't hers, this mansion that felt like a cage lined in silk and shadows. She had been here long enough to know that beauty in this world always came with barbed wire.
The Don's birthday party was in full swing. Well… not exactly his birthday—apparently in mafia culture, even a "name day" was cause for extravagance. Chandeliers glittered above the banquet hall, laughter and clinking glasses floated through the air, and expensive perfume mixed with the scent of roasted lamb and aged wine. She had to admit, she'd never seen such a parade of well-tailored arrogance in her life.
She stood by the far end of the room, trying to be invisible. Her gown—courtesy of the Don's personal stylist—hugged her in a way that made her uncomfortably aware of every pair of eyes passing over her. She hated how good she looked in it. She hated even more that she knew he noticed.
Matteo Deluca was holding court at the center of the room, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other gesturing lazily as men twice his age listened like disciples. He was sharp in a black suit with an open collar—no tie tonight—which only made him look more dangerous. But his gaze… oh, his gaze kept darting toward her like a magnet he couldn't turn off.
And then, he arrived.
Matteo Deluca—tall, lean, with the kind of smile that could sell lies to saints. She'd heard whispers about him before; his family controlled the shipping lanes, a crucial artery in the syndicate's operations. He was here tonight as a "guest," but something in the way he scanned the room told Aria that Matteo never entered a space without calculating its worth—and its weaknesses.
Unfortunately, his eyes landed on her.
"You must be the bride," Matteo said, appearing beside her so suddenly she nearly dropped her champagne flute. His voice was silk dipped in mischief. "Or should I say… the Don's newest prize?"
Aria's spine stiffened. "You shouldn't say that."
Matteo chuckled, leaning just close enough for his cologne—spice and something faintly floral—to curl around her senses. "Forgive me. I only mean that the rumors don't do you justice."
Rumors. God. She could only imagine what this world said about her—that she was bought, claimed, possessed. And wasn't that the truth, in its ugliest form?
"I'm not interested in rumors," she said, looking away.
"But I am interested in you."
Her pulse stumbled. It was infuriating—the easy charm, the way his words slid under her skin like warm honey. Part of her wanted to walk away. Another part wanted to see if Luca was watching.
It turned out she didn't have to wonder long.
Across the room, she caught a flicker of movement. Luca had gone still mid-conversation, his glass lowering slowly as he took in the scene. Even from here, his jaw was hard enough to cut marble.
Matteo noticed it too. His smirk widened. "Ah, I see. The lion's watching."
"I'm not a mouse," she muttered.
"Good," Matteo said, his gaze lingering. "Because I'd hate to think you're only here to sit in a gilded cage."
Her breath hitched. He didn't know her, but somehow, in that moment, she felt seen.
A shadow fell over them. "Matteo."
The voice was calm, too calm. She turned to see Luca standing there, all six-foot-two of contained fury wrapped in a tailored suit. His eyes were cold, his smile nonexistent.
"Don Luciano," Matteo replied, almost lazily, like they were old school friends meeting at a reunion.
"You're standing too close to my wife."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a warning. It was an iron bar dropped between them.
Matteo tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Just being polite."
"Polite," Luca repeated, his tone making the word sound filthy. "Walk away."
For a heartbeat, Aria thought Matteo might push it—he had that look, the kind that said he enjoyed poking at dangerous things just to see what happened. But eventually, he gave her a parting smile, one that promised this wouldn't be the last time he sought her out, and strolled off toward the bar.
Luca didn't move right away. He stood there, close enough that she could feel the storm radiating off him.
"You enjoy that?" he asked quietly.
She blinked. "What?"
"Letting him talk to you like that."
"Like what?" she challenged. "Like a human being?"
His jaw flexed. "Like a man who wants what's mine."
Her anger sparked. "Yours? I'm not property, Luca."
His eyes burned into hers. "Then stop acting like you're on the market."
That stung—partly because it was unfair, partly because the way he said it sent an involuntary thrill through her. She hated herself for that.
"Maybe if you didn't treat me like a prisoner—"
"Maybe if you didn't test me in front of half the syndicate," he cut in, his voice low but dangerous, "I wouldn't have to remind everyone where you belong."
She stared at him, breath quick, torn between wanting to slap him and… something far more dangerous.
The music swelled in the background, guests laughed, and glasses clinked. But between them, it was silent—thick, suffocating, electric.
Finally, she stepped back. "I didn't ask for this life."
"And I didn't ask to care," he said, almost to himself, before turning and walking away.
Her heart gave a traitorous jolt at those words. Care? Was that what this was? Or was it just another form of possession dressed up in jealousy?
She didn't know. But she knew one thing—Matteo's smile would come back to haunt her, and Luca's eyes… those would be impossible to escape.