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.

Eleonora's POV

A dull ache settles deep in my bones as I step into the cathedral's hushed interior. My gaze travels over the vacant pews, and I pause to straighten two hymnals carelessly shoved into their racks. To free my hands, I first place the dish of pasta alla Norma for Father Coppola on a wooden bench. Then I move forward, carefully lifting the withered flower arrangement from its stand beside the pulpit and carrying the drooping blooms toward the small kitchen.

I set the sad bouquet on the counter and immediately reach under the sink for a trash bag. With a sigh, I begin dismantling the arrangement, disposing of the dead flowers before wiping down the surfaces. This is my Tuesday ritual, a small task to spare Father Coppola the trouble-though left to himself, he'd probably let the flowers wilt until Martina brings the new ones. Once the kitchen is tidy, I retrieve the pasta and make my way to his office.

My fingers brush gently over the tender spot on my hip-the legacy of Matteo's kick last night. I refuse to let the memory poison one of my few precious mornings of peace. Instead, I let the sanctuary's deep silence soak into me. This place always brings calm, and today is no exception.

Outside his office door, I give a quick knock before entering. "Morning, Father."

He looks up from his papers, and a warm smile softens his face. "Good morning, Nora."

Our Tuesday meetings follow a familiar pattern: we discuss the upcoming floral arrangements and what I'll bake for the parishioners after Sunday Mass. The Parish covers all the costs, which means I don't have to ask Matteo for a cent. I even receive a small stipend for my efforts, which I set aside for my own personal necessities.

I take the chair across from his desk, setting the pasta dish carefully on one corner. "I hope you like it."

"Thank you. Between you and Martina, I never have to worry about meals," he says, his gratitude evident. He takes the container and moves it aside. "Now, what's on your mind for Sunday?"

"I was thinking cannoli," I say, pulling my shopping list from my bag. "It's been a while."

He waves a dismissive, trusting hand. "You're in charge of the kitchen. Whatever you decide is fine with me. How much do you need?"

I show him the list and the total. As he counts out cash from a small lockbox, I ask, "Should we use roses again for the altar?"

He makes a non-committal, grumbling sound. "Whatever you think is best."

I always run my ideas by him anyway, a gesture of respect. He hands me the money. "I'll see you on Sunday, Nora."

"Have a good week, Father," I murmur, slipping out of the room.

These Tuesday and Sunday mornings are my sanctuary in more ways than one-the only guaranteed hours I have away from Matteo. Truthfully, he has been a living nightmare since the incident at Elysian Reverie. I tiptoe around the house, a ghost in my own home, yet his shouting greets me every evening. The blows are becoming more frequent, more calculated. The violence is escalating, a cold dread that coils in my stomach and steals my sleep.

As I begin the long walk to Martina's flower shop, my mind drifts to the Parish's cash in my handbag. It might cover a train ticket out of here. The mere thought of taking it sends a bolt of guilt through me, and my hand flies to my chest, tracing the sign of the cross. Forgive me, Father, for even thinking it.

The sun is relentless, hammering down on my head and neck. Soon, my cardigan feels like a woolen prison, sweat prickling my skin.

After finally getting to the flower shop, I follow Martina to the workroom at the back, fragrant with the scent of cut stems and damp soil. "Can we do roses for the altar this week?" I ask, striving to sound normal, to ignore the unsettling fact of Alessio Marino's unexplained attention.

"Roses are pricey," she says, snipping stems. "But I can mix in some baby's breath and daisies to stretch them."

"That would be perfect." My eyes wander over the buckets of vibrant blooms. "I made pasta alla Norma for Father Coppola today," I add, our usual unspoken system to avoid duplicate meals.

"Good to know. I'll make him some maccu later this week."

Soup? In this heat? I keep the thought off my face as she's focused on her work.

"What are you baking for Sunday?" she asks.

"Cannoli. It's been a while. Can you make sure we have enough cream?"

"Make extra," she advises. "The crowd's been growing."

"I will," I promise.

Martina's eyes fix on mine. Her brows draw together in concern. "Are you sleeping enough, Nora? You look exhausted."

A humorless laugh escapes me. "That's the second time I've heard that this week. I guess I need to try harder with my makeup."

Self-consciously, I pull my lightweight cardigan tighter around me. Despite the summer heat blazing outside, long sleeves are a necessity-a shield for the bruises on my arms. My summer dresses remain buried in the closet, jeans my only option to hide the marks on my legs.

Martina tilts her head, her face etched with a concern that goes deeper than appearances. "That's not what I meant, and I think you know it. Is everything alright?"

The direct question feels like a trap. I don't want to talk about it. I can't. I rise to my feet, nodding too quickly. "It's fine. I should get going. Need to be home before lunch."

She shakes his head slowly, seeing right through my evasion. She says, her voice low. "Whenever you're ready to talk."

I paste a thin, fragile smile on my face. "I know. Just... not now."

"I won't push you," she relents with a heavy sigh. "I'll see you on Sunday, Nora."

Then Martina plucks a white lily from a bucket and holds it out to me. "Go on, get out of this heat."

Taking the flower, I offer a genuine, if tired, smile. "See you Sunday."

As I walk the couple of miles between the the flower shop and the grocery store, the sun beats down on my head, and soon, I feel uncomfortable from the heat.

Suddenly, a black SUV pulls up beside me, and I give the vehicle a cautious look as I pick up my pace.

When I hear a door open, I glance over my shoulder, and seeing Alessio, I come to a dead stop on the sidewalk.

The growl of an engine breaks my concentration. A black SUV glides to a stop beside me. Instinctively, I quicken my pace, casting a wary glance at the tinted windows.

A door clicks open. I freeze on the spot. Alessio.

Oh, God. Not him. Not again.

He offers no greeting. "Where are you headed?" His tone leaves no room for anything but an answer.

I point a shaky finger down the street. "The grocery store."

"Get in." It's not a suggestion. He gives a slight nod toward the open back door.

Ugh. I exhale, a sound of pure resignation, and walk to the vehicle. Apprehension twists my stomach into a hard, cold knot as I slide onto the leather seat. He climbs in right beside me, his presence overwhelming the space. I immediately shrink toward the far door, putting every possible inch between us.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and a traitorous shiver dances up my spine. Part of me is grateful for the blast of air conditioning, but the greater part screams that there is no worse place to be than trapped in a car with a leader of the Cosa Nostra.

"Too hot for walking," he mutters, almost to himself. He shoots me a sidelong glance. "Why are you dressed for winter?"

I hug my arms around my middle, pressing my body against the door. "It was cooler this morning," I lie, the words tasting bitter. Forgive me, Father.

Without a word from Alessio, Joey pulls the SUV back into traffic, heading toward Martina's. A thick, oppressive silence fills the cabin. I am hyper-aware of every shift of his weight, every breath. I can't stop the fine tremor in my hands. And despite my fear, I can't ignore his harsh, unsettling attractiveness, a fact that sends a confusing and unwelcome flutter through my core.

He makes no attempt at conversation. When Joey finds a parking spot outside the grocery store, a breath of pure relief escapes me.

I force my lips into a semblance of a grateful smile and look at him. "Thank you for the ride."

But he says to Joey,"We're taking her inside."

"What?" My wide eyes are staring at him in disbelief.

As he exits the SUV, he whispers, "It's not open for discussion."

I nearly leaps out of my skin with fear when he puts his hand on my lower back while I'm getting out of the car.

This is beyond strange. It's unnerving.

Between the escalating terror waiting for me at home and the oppressive, confusing presence of Alessio Marino, the tension winding inside me feels like a wire about to snap.

Alessio's POV

The atmosphere quivers with tension emanating from Eleonora, and it's almost ridiculous that she wears winter clothes on such an oppressive day.

Although I have a long list of tasks to complete before tonight's darts game, the knowledge that Eleonora will visit Father Coppola today compelled me to instruct Joey to drive past the cathedral. It gives me a chance to keep her within my sight.

However, I never intended to spend the entire day as her fucking chauffeur. Given that she is destined to be my wife, I suppose it's time I get used to taking care of her needs.

Once we are married, she'll have both a driver and a bodyguard at her service, prepared to escort her anywhere her heart desires.

As I struggle to focus on the contract in my hands, I succumb to distraction, shifting my gaze to the enchanting woman beside me. I notice the white lily she clutches, nearly destroyed now, and mutter, "You're crushing it."

Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she gasps, "Come again?"

I gesture toward her hands. "You're holding that flower a bit too tightly."

She glances down, then murmurs, "Oh no." She loosens her grip on the wilting lily, adding with a small sigh, "Honestly, it was already dying when I got it."

As I admire her delicate features, I ask, "Why venture out on such a hot day?"

With a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks, she replies, "I had some errands to run." Nervously fidgeting with the flower, she begins to pluck its petals unaware.

"And these errands couldn't wait?" I prod, eager for more of her soft voice.

"Um..." Her fingers quicken, tearing off more petals. "I always meet Father Coppola on Tuesdays to bring him a homemade meal and discuss the baked goods for after Mass."

It's characteristic of her to think of the holy man like this, showcasing her nurturing nature.

She hesitates, her tongue flicking out to moisten her lips as she continues, "I just stopped by Martina's shop to pick out flowers for Sunday, and now I'm heading to grab the ingredients for the cannolis we'll serve after Mass." She finally pauses to catch her breath.

Her tendency to ramble is fucking charming and surprisingly endearing; it reveals the true Eleonora, unguarded and sincere.

Meanwhile, the lily is utterly ruined, and when she realizes it, panic crosses her face. "I'm so sorry!"

Clearly terrified that I would chastise her for the mess in the vehicle, she hurriedly scoops up the fallen petals, glancing around as if seeking an escape.

Just then, Joey finds a parking space near the grocery store, prompting me to say firmly, "We're going in with her."

"What?" Eleonora exclaims, her wide eyes betraying her shock.

"This isn't open for debate," I reply as I step out of the SUV, taking pleasure in this assertive exchange.

I stand waiting for her to exit, and when my hand lands gently on her lower back, she nearly jumps, startled.

I pay no mind to her reaction, confident she'll grow accustomed to my presence once we are married.

Joey lingers a short distance behind as we enter the store, and I grab a shopping cart.

Eleonora casts me a confused glance, but her courage fails her; she doesn't question why I've chosen to accompany her.

As we head toward the baking aisle, shoppers' eyes fixate on me, their fear palpable as people scatter in our wake, making Eleonora glance nervously up at me.

"What do you need?" I inquire, redirecting her attention.

Shaking her head slightly, she retrieves a crumpled note from her purse and quickly moves from one ingredient to another, hustling to gather supplies.

By the time we reach the checkout, the cashier avoids eye contact, scanning items with trembling hands.

The overwhelming sense of fear in the store is something I've carefully crafted over the years-an aura that speaks to power.

Eleonora extracts a few dollars from her bag, and I interject, "Let me take care of this."

"It's meant for the parish," she protests, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, but I choose not to repeat myself.

Ignoring her objections, I present my black unlimited card to the cashier, covering the meager cost of the ingredients that barely fill a single bag.

I make a mental note to arrange for Eleonora to have her own card soon.

As the payment processes, I remind myself not to forget this.

The cashier shakes like hell as she returns my card, which I place back into my wallet while Joey takes the shopping bag.

Outside the store, Eleonora scurries to stay close to me, whispering, "Thank you. I'll tell Father Coppola you took care of everything."

"You will not," I respond firmly.

"But I didn't use the money he gave me," she counters, her expression conflicted. "He'll want to know why."

For a moment, I respect her bravery in challenging me.

"Then just don't tell him the reason and keep the money for yourself," I suggest, watching her freeze in astonishment, as if I were fucking crazy.

"I can't lie to Father Coppola, and I certainly won't keep the parish's funds."

She makes the sign of the cross, clearly incredulous, and I let out a soft chuckle. "Why not?"

"To lie and to steal," she marvels, looking utterly aghast.

My lips curl into a mischievous grin as I lean closer, reaching out to caress her cheek. She flinches, her complexion paling.

Unfazed by her strong reaction, I maintain eye contact as I lean in slightly, causing her to hold her breath, and I can't help but laugh softly.

"It's not theft if I'm the one paying for it. I'm explicitly telling you to keep the money, which ultimately belongs to me."

Instead of responding verbally, she emits a small squeak and gives a nervous nod.

I raise my head slightly and meet her gaze once more. "Calm down, Eleonora. I have no intention of murdering you.

A surge of air escapes her lips, and sensing I've toyed with her emotions long enough today, I guide her toward the SUV. "Get in."

She dashes to the truck, like a small rabbit, and hurries inside.

As I settle next to her, she practically squishes herself against the far door.

I realize it's somewhat twisted, but I can't deny the fucking thrill I feel from her evident fear; a smile creeps onto my lips.

There's something undeniably intoxicating about the hunt for my little rabbit-this blend of vulnerability and strength in her captivates me endlessly.