Alessio's POV

Eleonora leaves with Joey as the door to the private office closes. My gaze, cool and analytical as a surgeon's scalpel, settles on Matteo. He stands not like a man, but like a boy caught stealing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, unable to find solid purchase on the Persian rug. Even in the dim, amber glow of the desk lamp, I can see the sheen of nervous sweat on his upper lip, a pathetic gloss over his weak features.

I do not speak immediately. The silence amplifies fear, allows imagination to conjure its own demons. I let it stretch, thicken, press down on him. He is a gnat, buzzing with irritating persistence around the fringes of my empire, drawn to the glitter of money and the illusion of influence, yet utterly lacking the spine for the grit that built it all.

Finally, when the silence has done its work and Matteo looks ready to jump out of his own skin, I lean forward. "Your sister, Eleonora," I begin, my voice devoid of any inflection, a flat plane of sound. "How old is she now?"

The question, so simple, so seemingly peripheral, seems to startle him. His eyes, watery and evasive, dart around the room as if the trap might be hidden in the bookshelves or the shadows of the drapes. "She's, uh, twenty-three, sir."

"Twenty-three." I repeat the number, not as a question, but as a fact to be examined. I let it hang in the silent air between us, heavy with unspoken implications. Old enough. Old enough for many things in our world, a world that often trades in youth and beauty as coldly as it does in contraband. A vague memory surfaces: her father's funeral years ago. A pale, slender figure swathed in black, a quiet shadow trailing behind her stepbrother. A girl, then. But more recently, a different impression lodged itself in my mind: not a girl, but a woman. Striking-yet beneath it, the tremor of fear in her lowered gaze, the tight clasp of her hands, stirred in me a dark and unexpected current of desire.

Matteo puffs out his chest slightly, a pathetic attempt to inflate his own importance. "Yes. A fine age. Marriageable, certainly." He ventures a weak, complicit smile, man-to-man. "But I plan to wait. Another two years, perhaps. There are... considerations."

"Considerations?" My left eyebrow lifts a mere fraction of an inch. I need Larry to dig into Eleonora's life.

"Family matters," he says. Then, he adds with a clumsy, almost laughable attempt at patriarchal authority, "But yes, the arrangements will be made when the time is right. A good alliance can stabilize many things."

"You will make no arrangements for Eleonora's marriage," I state, my voice dropping into a lower register, a tone that has silenced boardrooms and settled territorial disputes. It brooks no argument. "Not in two years. Not at all. Not without my express say-so. Is that clear?"

No one fucking gets to have her until I lose my interest inher.

All the false bravado drains from Matteo's face, leaving behind the pallor of raw fear. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively. "Crystal clear, Mr. Marino."

"Good." I lean back slowly, the fine leather of my chair giving a soft sigh of protest. "Now," I continue, my eyes locking onto his, "explain to me why she was here at the Elysian Reverie tonight to see Antonio Conti."

The blood drains from Matteo's face so completely he looks cadaverous. This line of questioning, the specific name, has blindsided him. He stammered, "She... I thought it would be good for her. To get out, to meet an associate of mine..."

"Cut the crap, Matteo." My voice slices through his prevarication like a shard of ice. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. "You are wasting my time and trying my patience. Why was she really there?"

Under the relentless pressure of my gaze, Matteo utterly crumples. His shoulders sag, deflating as if the bones within had dissolved. The last vestige of pretense falls away. "Antonio..." he whispers, the name itself sounding like a confession. "He's been pressing me. Hard. About a debt." He takes a shuddering breath. "He suggested... he said if Eleonora joined us for a few drinksl, lent a bit of... charm to the evening, he'd be more flexible with the terms."

A red haze, hot and immediate, blurs the edges of my vision for a single, dangerous second. He suggested. The phrase echoes in my skull. Using a woman, a sister, as a bargaining chip. As a sweetener. It is cowardice of the most despicable, venal order. I've seen this play before, a tired and sordid script acted out by small men with big debts. Men who cannot stand on their own two feet, so they prostitute the dignity of their daughters, sisters, or wives, using them as currency or human shields. It is the antithesis of everything I demand in my organization-a sign of profound weakness that inevitably leads to larger, messier problems.

Without taking my eyes off Matteo's wretched face, I give a slight, almost imperceptible nod to Larry, who has stood by the door as still and silent as a granite statue. There is no hesitation, no theatrical wind-up. In one smooth, efficient motion, Larry steps forward, his massive fist connecting with Matteo's midsection with a dull, sickening thud. The air explodes from Matteo's lungs in a choked, agonized gasp. He folds in half like a pocket knife, staggering back until his shoulders crash against the bookshelf, making the crystal decanters on a nearby cart tremble and chime softly.

I wait. The only sounds are Matteo's ragged, wheezing attempts to draw breath and the steady, mocking tick of the clock. When he's managed to straighten slightly, his face a mask of pain and humiliation, hands clutched to his stomach, I speak again. My voice is dangerously calm, the calm of deep, still water that hides a lethal undertow. "Let that be a lesson in economics, Matteo. A true man settles his own debts. He does not put his sister on the negotiating table like a complimentary bottle of house wine to improve the fucking terms. Do you understand the difference?"

Matteo can only nod weakly, his eyes watering, still fighting for air.

I let him suffer for another long moment before continuing. "You're a regular in the gambling rooms here, right?."

"Yes, sir," he gasps, instantly wary, his body tensing even through the pain.

"Your debt to me," I say, leaning forward again, my eyes like chips of flint. "Not to Antonio Conti, to me. You have one month to square it. In full. Clean money."

I let the ultimatum hang, watching the scale of the impossibility dawn on his face. "And listen to me very carefully," I continue, my voice dropping to a near whisper that forces him to strain to hear. "If I hear even a whisper that you have used Eleonora's name, her presence, her future, or even her photograph to negotiate for so much as a discounted newspaper or a favorable parking spot, you will find the terms of all your arrangements, with me and with everyone else, becoming significantly less... flexible. The interest will compound in ways you cannot imagine. Do we understand each other now? Completely?"

"Yes, sir," he wheezes, the color not returning to his face. He looks like a man who has just signed his own death warrant and is only now comprehending the small print. "One month. Absolutely. And Eleonora... she won't be involved. I swear it. I promise."

"See that she isn't." I dismiss him with a flick of my hand, as one might shoo away the gnat he is. "Get him out of my sight, Larry."

As Matteo limps toward the door, bent over, each step a small agony, Larry's large hand grips his arm not to support, but to steer and expedite his removal. The door closes behind them with a solid, final thunk.

"Larry," I say, not turning around, knowing he would re-enter once the trash was deposited in the alley.

The door opens and closes softly. "Boss?"

"I want a background check on Eleonora Greco. Quiet. Thorough. I want to know everything."

A flicker of surprise, quickly mastered, passes over Larry's usually impassive face. Such a request, focused on a woman with no apparent direct connection to business, is unusual. But his loyalty is absolute. He simply nods once. "Consider it done."

My gaze lingers on the Tuesday 5 p.m. calendar entry. The biweekly sit-down. What started as a bloody necessity-five predators in a room, teeth bared, establishing borders without a war-has settled into a grim ritual. We're not friends. We're survivors who've found a temporary equilibrium. Now, we settle scores and broker deals over a bottle of grappa and a game of darts. The soft thud of a bullseye often carries more weight than a shouted threat.

Darts make me think of my unle, who's very good at it. His latest obsession is my marital status. To him, I need an heir soon because I might die being a boss of the Cosa Nostra.

And then, like a ghost slipping through a locked door, her face appears. Eleonora.

I dismiss it instantly. The Grecos are negligible. Aligning with them would be a step sideways at best, more likely a step down.

But... her blood is ours. Sicilian, through and through.

The thought curdles as I picture her brother, Matteo-a spineless leech with the morals of a stray cat. The mere concept of that man at my family table, calling me family, is viscerally repulsive.

My focus drifts to my hand. I rub my thumb and forefinger together, chasing the phantom sensation of a single, silken strand of hair I'd brushed aside. The violent shudder that went through her, the way her whole body braced for a blow... that's a lesson taught with fists, not words.

A familiar, icy current of disgust runs through me. My own childhood home was a training ground in fear, my mother's silent tears the only protest against my father's temper. I emerged from that house determined on one thing: my power would never be used that way. My hands would never bring that kind of terror to a woman.

Yet, the memory of Eleonora flinch is tattooed behind my eyes. She's all fragile angles and startled eyes that held a bewildering mix of terror and a quiet, unbroken will. Her hair was a cascade of unruly chestnut curls, a wildness utterly foreign to the sleek, controlled women in my orbit.

"Boss?" Larry's voice is a low rumble, pulling me back. I'd forgotten he was there, a mountain of quiet vigilance by the door. I clear my throat, a sharp, physical action to banish the persistent image, and tuck my phone away.

Standing, I smooth my jacket. "Let's move. I have other places to be."

I am surrounded every day by women crafted to be appealing. They are part of the scenery. But Eleonora, inexplicably, become a fixation. And I can't seem to shake it.

Eleonora's POV

A violent shove between my shoulder blades launches me into the foyer. "Worthless trash."

The warmth this house once held exists only as ghosts now - the phantom scent of Papà's pipe, the echo of Paola's laugh. The present tastes of dust and dread.

The blow comes from behind, a flat crack against the base of my skull. My legs give out. I hit the parquet floor - the same floor I spend Saturdays polishing to a high gloss - with force that rattles my teeth. A white-hot spike of pain drills through my temple.

My purse skitters under the console. Before I can draw breath, his boot connects with my ribs. A deep, bruising ache explodes beneath the bone.

I bite down until copper floods my mouth. Not a sound. Never a sound.

The first time, he left a violet-and-yellow halo around my eye. I was grounded for fourteen days. The questions from the community about my whereabouts irritated him, so now he never lays a hand on my face.

"This is on you," he snarls, his shadow falling over me. "Thirty days to find a mountain of cash because you're useless. My portfolio will bleed."

His foot draws back again. This time it finds my diaphragm. All air evacuates my lungs in one agonizing rush. My vision tunnels to pinpricks. A broken, guttural noise tears loose before I can swallow it.

Hot tears track through the dust on my cheeks. I fold inward, knees to chest, arms a desperate barricade.

The polished toe of his shoe presses into the small of my back, bearing down until my spine protests. "Keep testing me," he whispers, breath hot against my ear. "See if you live to claim your inheritance."

The weight lifts. His deliberate footsteps retreat toward the living room.

What a jerk.

I push up on trembling arms, swallow bile with the groan. Leaving my purse, I use the wall as a crutch, half-walking, half-crawling to my room.

The lock clicks. Only then do my bones give out. I slide down the door until I am a heap on the floor.

Silent tears fall - a steady leak of despair. I don't wipe them away.

Two more years.

It stretches before me like a prison sentence. What sum of money can justify days like this?

I could vanish. Find some forgotten town, take any work. Disappear.

You own nothing. Not a cent. Would you walk there?

Hopelessness sits on my chest, crushing. I curl tighter, forehead to knees.

God, I miss Papà. Mamma is just a smile in a faded photo, but they say I have her hair.

I was his everything. Even after Paola came, that never changed. For one fleeting season, I believed in fairy tales - a kind stepmother, a protective brother. Then the world dropped out from under me.

A fist hammers my door. "The living room is a pigsty! Clean it!"

I close my eyes, force steadiness into my voice. "Yes."

I wait, then peer out. Down the hall, his door - our parents' door - slams shut.

He claimed their room a month after the funeral. When I called it disrespectful, his backhand taught me the new order. "I'm the head of this family now", he'd spat. "I take what's mine."

After that first time, I sobbed until sick, mourning the stepbrother I thought existed. Now I know: the monster was always there, sleeping just beneath the skin.

I duck into the bathroom, dry-swallow two pills to blunt the throbbing in my side.

In the living room, I retrieve my purse. Then I see his handiwork: a crystal decanter lies in glittering shards on the hearth rug, an amber river of single-malt seeping into the wallpaper.

A weary sigh escapes me. I fetch supplies.

Two years. Then it's yours. Then burn this place and never look back.

I sweep every lethal splinter, wipe the sticky residue until my fingers prune. Done, I retreat to the kitchen.

My only sanctuary. Here, the alchemy of flour and butter, the quiet precision of a knife, makes sense. Needing the ritual, I begin the focaccia for tomorrow's parish cleaning - the Russo wedding requires the whole community to make the cathedral shine.

Kneading the dough, feeling its living elasticity, the knot between my shoulders eases. The pills whisper through my veins, softening the ache.

I let myself drift: a Larry cottage with an herb garden, a quiet man with gentle hands, bread baking for simple joy. A life where the names Matteo and Cosa Nostra hold no power, might even be forgotten.

On this Tuesday, the cathedral is cool and dim, smelling of lemon polish and damp stone. Sunlight strains through the high stained-glass windows we are there to clean. The upcoming wedding demands every surface gleam.

"Mind the crevices on the pew ends, Eleonora," Martina's voice echoes as she directs the brass polishing. "The Russos notice everything."

"I know," I murmur, dragging my cloth along ornate scrollwork. A wedding. The word feels alien, belonging to a universe of normalcy far from mine. My future is a closed door, a clock ticking down behind it.

My assigned area climbs upward. Soon I am perched on a ladder's top step, reaching to clean a grimy lower panel of a window. Outside is a blur of overgrown churchyard and mossy angels. Up here, the busy silence below becomes a distant hum. The residual soreness from Matteo's latest violence is a fading echo in my bones.

Two weeks pass since the incident at Elysian Reverie. Matteo grows more tense with each day, the debt he owes Alessio Marino a tightening noose around his neck-and my throat. He vents that pressure on me. Yesterday, he slid a paper across the kitchen table, his finger tapping the line where my signature should go. It names him my sole beneficiary should I die.

I shake my head. The fact he believes I am foolish enough to sign my own death certificate still stuns me. I know the truth. The moment ink meets that line, my life becomes forfeit. He wants what is mine-the inheritance-and he will erase me to claim it.

The threat thickens daily. The thought of enduring two more years begins to feel less like a countdown and more like a fantasy. Yet every possible escape route I trace in my mind leads to a dead end.

Aunt Anna's house is no refuge. Matteo would find me there within hours. To harbor me would place her in an impossible position, bound as she and all my family are by the unspoken but iron laws of Cosa Nostra.

Even if I dared to ask her for enough money to disappear, the act of helping me would mark her for retribution. Nothing moves here without their knowledge, without their consent.

A heavy, hopeless sigh escapes me. I lose myself in the circular motion, the clear streak left on ancient glass. For a few precious seconds, I am just a woman cleaning a window for a stranger's joy.

The voice comes from directly below, a low vibration that cuts the quiet like a blade through silk.

"Eleonora."

Him.

Recognition is a physical shock, ice water to the heart. My body jolts, a treacherous spasm on the narrow step. The damp cloth flies from my grip. The world upends - the saint's serene face, the stone floor rushing up, a collective gasp blooming below.

Then, not shattering impact, but a brutal interruption of momentum. Hard arms lock around me, one across my back, the other under my knees, catching me with jarring efficiency. Breath slams from my lungs.

I am held against a chest that feels like carved stone. The scent enveloping me is stark - expensive wool, cold leather, something metallic and clean, like a gun barrel after rain. Utterly alien to the smells of polish and dust.

Terror, pure and liquid, floods my veins. I freeze.

Slowly, against my will, my gaze lifts.

Alessio Marino's face is terrifyingly close. Features usually viewed from fearful distance are now in devastating detail: the sharp, unyielding jaw, startlingly thick lashes framing eyes not merely dark, but a fathomless, pitiless grey - a winter sea at dusk. They hold no softness, only piercing analytical focus, absorbing my wide-eyed shock, the frantic pulse he must feel hammering against his arm.

Time suspends. Cleaning sounds fade to nothing. There is only the solid reality of his hold, the dizzying proximity, the devastating intensity of his gaze.

My lips part soundlessly. Humiliation burns through the fear - to be so exposed, so clumsy, before him. To be held by him feels infinitely more dangerous than stone.

He doesn't smile. "Ladders require attention." Then he puts me down.

The hazel eyes hold me a beat too long. He shakes his head once. "Follow me."

It isn't a request.

"Where?" My tongue darts to wet dry lips.

He is already turning, his two silent shadows falling into step behind him. My lungs tighten. Marino doesn't attend Mass. I have a bad feeling.

Every eye in the cathedral burns into my back as I trail them out. Not a single soul moves to intervene.

Outside, air hangs thick with the scent of damp soil and neglected roses. They lead me past overgrown gardens to the old cemetery at the rear. My stomach turns to lead.

He stops before a lichen-stained angel, his back to me, studying the weathered epitaph. Silence stretches, pulled taut by my hammering heart. I wrap my arms around myself, tremors beginning deep in my bones.

Father, don't let him kill me on holy ground. Don't let him kill me at all.

A slight tilt of his head dismisses the two men. Their retreating footsteps make the privacy feel more dangerous. A breeze catches my skirt; I grab fistfuls of fabric to hold it down.

"Why am I here?" The quiver in my voice betrays me.

He turns. One hand stays pocketed, the other rises to rub his jaw, his gaze cutting. "You look tired."

The words hang between us, absurd and unsettling. "That's what this is about?"

His head tilts. "No." He moves then - a predator's fluid grace closing the distance. My breath hitches. "Your brother visited me."

"Stepbrother." The correction is instant, born of long hatred.

One dark brow arches. I rush to apologize. "Sir, I didn't -"

"Alessio."

The name, offered so casually, stuns me. No one calls him that.

He folds his arms, the gesture amplifying his imposing frame. "Matteo informed me you're untouched."

Heat explodes across my face, chest, limbs. Embarrassment is a fire under my skin. I nod, once.

"A virgin?"

Another nod.

"Never dated?"

A third. My cheeks burn.

His hand moves toward my hair. I flinch - a violent, ingrained recoil from years of anticipating blows.

He pauses, his gaze sharpening on my face before he winds a loose curl around his finger. "You think I'd hit you."

His comment turns my insides to ice. The tremble in my limbs grows. Unable to lie on consecrated ground, I whisper the raw truth. "I fear you."

He releases the curl. "I don't enjoy hitting women."

The words linger in the heavy air, a statement that offers no real comfort, only deeper uncertainty.

Alessio's POV

Eleonora Greco refuses to leave my fucking thoughts for fourteen straight days. Once Larry compiles every traceable detail about her, I have Matteo delivered to me. That fucker eagerly supplies every missing piece of information with shameless speed. It's obvious the man holds no loyalty whatsoever to his family.

But I don't base my understanding solely on Matteo's account. I need to confirm the facts from her own lips. I know she's too terrified to even attempt lying directly to me.

I observe her as a breeze catches strands of her hair. Even with her soft brown eyes shimmering with raw fear, she doesn't drop her gaze. She displays more backbone than her treacherous stepbrother, who essentially presented her to me as a packaged settlement for his fucking debts.

I made it explicitly fucking clear I would end him with my own hands if he whispered a single word of this arrangement to her while I was still considering it.

It aggravates the living fuck out of me how readily Matteo offers Eleonora's untouched state as transactional currency. She is worth infinitely more than a mere three hundred thousand dollars. She is worth more than his entire pathetic existence.

What truly enrages me is the knowledge that he has sufficient capital parked in stock market investments to cover what he owes, yet he chooses to sacrifice her instead. That fucker is willing to sell her virtue now, then pawn her off at twenty-five to some second-rate man who doesn't mind used goods.

I discover the reason for his timing-she gains control of her inheritance at twenty-five. Matteo undoubtedly wants that money as well, the greedy piece of shit.

It infuriates me.

Looking at this woman who has intruded upon my mind more than I care to acknowledge, her complete innocence is unmistakable. When Larry investigated her background, he found nothing. Not a single fucking mark against her name.

Every single Sunday she pours coffee and tea after Mass concludes. She delivers pots of homemade soup and meals to ailing parishioners. In the world I command, a woman this untainted is a fucking rarity. And I have always possessed an appreciation for acquiring rare and unique possessions.

Her tongue flicks out nervously to wet her lips, and the action draws my focus directly to her mouth. I would stake my entire fucking fortune that no man has ever kissed her. Completely captivated, I murmur, "Has a man ever kissed you before?"

Her eyebrows knit together as a deep blush spreads from her neck to her cheeks. Christ, she is so fucking innocent that a simple question about kissing makes her flush with embarrassment.

She gives a slight, tight shake of her head, and I can see the visible strain it requires for her to maintain eye contact with me.

I eliminate the space between us until only a breath separates us, leaning in to inhale her scent. She smells of warm vanilla and baking bread-a scent that makes my mouth fucking water instantly-underlaid by something delicate and floral, like spring blossoms. "See you soon, piccola coniglietta."

Calling her "little rabbit" feels instinctively correct. As I turn and walk away, I feel the intense heat of her frightened stare burning into the space between my shoulder blades.

Eleonora Greco may come from an insignificant family, but she possesses the one thing no one else in my community can offer me-absolute, unbroken purity.

Matteo is in for a severe fucking surprise because my intentions extend far beyond merely taking her virginity. If I claim her, I will marry the most beautiful woman in Los Angeles. She will warm my bed at night and bear my legitimate heirs. And finally, Uncle Lorenzo will have to cease his relentless fucking nagging on the subject.

To be completely honest, the state of marriage itself means very little to me personally. The entire notion of romantic love has never held the slightest appeal. But the prospect of owning this particular beautiful woman... that is undeniably tempting.

"Are we departing, boss?" Joey inquires as I approach him and Larry.

"Yes." I walk to the SUV with blacked-out windows and settle into the back seat. "Drive me to the club first. Then bring Matteo Greco directly to my office."

"Understood, boss," Larry responds while Joey starts the vehicle's engine.

During the drive to the heart of West Hollywood, where my club, Elysian Reverie, is located, my mind becomes completely saturated with the strategic opportunity laid before me. Before I ever saw Eleonora, I didn't give two shits about getting married. I acknowledged I would eventually take that step, but there was no sense of urgency whatsoever.

There remains no true urgency now.

However, the thought of having that beautiful little rabbit warming my bed is simply too advantageous a prospect to ignore. I will possess something no other man has ever laid a finger on.

The corner of my mouth lifts in a faint, cold smile, but the expression vanishes instantly when I consider Matteo. I am not known for offering second chances, but a deeply sadistic part of me desires to toy with that fucker as if he were a trapped mouse. I want to observe exactly how far he will debase himself before I finally end him.

When Joey brings the SUV to a halt at the club's entrance, Larry escorts me inside before returning to the vehicle to execute my order. Elysian Reverie is closed for business on Sundays, so aside from a couple of maintenance staff cleaning the premises thoroughly, the place is shrouded in quiet.

I proceed directly to my private office to personally verify the financial deposits logged over the past week. I employ people to handle nearly everything for me, but when it comes to money-the lifeblood of this entire operation-I do not trust a single soul.

Beyond the strip club and the attached casino, I own and operate a fleet of cargo ships that transport prohibited merchandise across global waters. Daniele manages the intricate scheduling for that fleet, while Frank ensures no serious trouble erupts here at the club.

He also oversees the restaurant and casino operations. Sunday is Frank's sole contracted day off, so I don't even bother checking if he is present in his own office.

I consider Frank an excellent candidate to eventually manage our Sicilian interests on my behalf when my uncle retires. Consequently, I must begin considering another individual whom we can carefully train to eventually succeed Frank here. It will not be an easy decision to make, because besides maintaining necessary alliances with the heads of the other four families, I genuinely trust only four men: Daniele, Frank, Larry, and Joey. I keep my inner circle deliberately small because, in my book, that is the only reliable method to stay alive.

A firm knock sounds at my office door before Larry enters, followed closely by a thoroughly terrified Matteo, who looks as though he hasn't slept a wink since our last conversation. His haggard appearance immediately reminds me of the deep exhaustion I saw etched on Eleonora's face.

Larry gives the fucker a solid shove forward. Matteo stumbles awkwardly and comes to a staggering halt directly in front of my imposing desk. I lock my eyes on him with pure, undiluted disgust, while his own pleading gaze is overflowing with abject terror.

The most straightforward solution flashes through my mind: I could kill him right now and simply take Eleonora. The clarity of that option is almost appealing in its simplicity.

My tone drops, laced with quiet, unmistakable danger. "If I decide Eleonora belongs to me, you will not interfere in any aspect of her life. Is that perfectly clear?"

Confusion flickers briefly across his face before it is swiftly replaced by a wave of profound relief. "So... you are agreeing to take her... and in exchange, the three hundred thousand is wiped clean from my name?"

I stare at him, letting the silence stretch and thicken until he looks genuinely ready to piss himself in fear. "I have not yet reached my final decision. But you should understand this: if you breathe so much as a single word of this discussion to her, it will constitute the very last action you ever take. Consider that your sole and final warning."

"O-of c-course, absolutely," he stammers, his head bobbing in frantic agreement. "I'm not a complete fool. The absolute last thing I want is for her to get some wild idea about running away from all this."

I frown, studying him with detached curiosity. "Is that a legitimate concern? Do you believe she is actually capable of that?"

His nods vigorously. "Ever since she was a young teenager, she's harbored these... ridiculous, childish dreams. Living in some obscure small town, in a little house with a white picket fence, married to some gentle, perfect husband. Wedding rings engraved with both their names. She's been saving herself explicitly for that specific fantasy." He delivers this explanation with a palpable sneer, as if her humble aspirations are personally insulting to him.

My gaze hardens into ice at his obvious derision. If she becomes my wife, her world will consist of fortified estates and limitless resources, not some quaint, pathetic fucking picket fence. "What other aspirations does she hold?" I demand, my voice leaving no room for evasion.

He shrugs, his expression dismissive. "The usual sentimental nonsense. She wants to be a mother someday."

Good. That piece of information slots neatly into my planning. That, I can provide for her.

I wave my hand in a brusque, dismissive gesture. Larry is already in motion, his large hand closing firmly around Matteo's upper arm to physically steer the man out of my office.

Once I'm alone again, I find myself staring at the spreadsheet on my laptop, but the numbers blur together in my mind. My thoughts are entirely consumed by the beautiful young woman who might soon be my wife.

Recognizing that she could easily slip away, I start to create a detailed plan. Since I can't let her know about the wedding in advance, I'll need to entice her to the ceremony under a cleverly devised pretext. Additionally, I want to ensure her stepbrother remains oblivious to my intentions of taking more from her than just her virginity. Once I have her positioned in front of the priest, surrounded securely by my men, any possibility of escape will be utterly eliminated. She will have no viable choice remaining but to marry me.

Do I feel any sense of moral unease about being prepared to systematically trick a woman into marriage?

No. Not one fucking bit.

In the territory I rule, I identify what I desire, and I take possession of it. Eleonora will learn. Obedience will become her new reality and her only safe harbor. In return for her compliance, her striking beauty, and the heirs she will provide me, she will live a life of unparalleled luxury and security. She will be responsible for raising our children within the safety of a fortress, entirely insulated from the grim reality that produced a man like her stepbrother. She will have a defined purpose, and I will have secured a possession of unique value.

With the decision now solidified in my mind, the corner of my mouth lifts once more in a cold, satisfied curve.

Soon, very soon, the little rabbit and the entirety of her untouched innocence will belong to me. Permanently. Completely. Irrevocably. She will be mine in every sense that matters.