Luca's gaze, which had been fixed on the dossier, flickered up.
"What is this?" His voice was dangerously soft.
Enzo pushed the thick manila envelope closer across the desk, the movement scraping against the dark wood.
"A criminal record."
"Whose?"
"Your gentle wife, It appears she possesses a rather colourful history of arrests. I venture to suggest this is the precise source of her detailed knowledge regarding syndicates and underworld whispers."
Luca's long fingers slid out and plucked the file, flipping through the pages. The words seemed to jump out at him from the official reports — stark and alarming:
Assault charges. Organ trafficking. Narcotics distribution. Unauthorised post-mortem examination?
Luca read the list aloud, the disbelief in his tone slowly morphing into something resembling awe. He looked up, his expression a question mark carved in stone.
"What, precisely, is her vocation?"
Enzo ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, a rare flicker of genuine perplexity crossing his features.
"Well, this is where it gets… extraordinary. At her age, she holds degrees in both Forensic Pathology and Pharmaceutical Science. An undeniably brilliant academic trajectory, though tragically misguided.
Most of the more severe accusations — which she always evaded — stemmed from forbidden experimentation, primarily on cadavers and laboratory animals. It seems she was attempting to synthesize some unprecedented compound. That's the most concrete detail I've managed to extract so far."
Luca let out a soft, low whistle — a sound that held no admiration, only dark, simmering amusement.
"A remarkable history, both academic and criminal. I see now I did not err in describing her as a serial killer in progress.
Are you absolutely certain there is no confirmed homicide? She certainly seems… capable. And how was she acquitted of every single charge? Does she possess a hidden affiliation with a major gang, or perhaps an inherited fortune that buys justice?"
Enzo shook his head slowly, patiently.
"Neither. Nor the other. In truth, it's her shadow — her friend. A high-calibre, mercilessly effective solicitor. They operate as a perfectly dysfunctional unit: the inverse of a saint and sinner. One breaks the law with scientific brilliance, and the other meticulously patches the hole. Even the barrister's network of contacts is beyond reproach."
A slow, utterly satisfied smile spread across Luca's face. He picked up the half-filled wine glass from the desk, swirling the ruby liquid so that the light danced off the rim.
"She's perfect," he breathed out.
"Perfect?" Enzo repeated, recoiling as if struck. The surprise momentarily erased his usual professional reserve.
"Did I mishear you, Luca? Where is the man who demanded a wife who was a gentle, heaven-sent angel — someone sweet, subservient, obedient, and utterly devoid of ambition beyond the domestic sphere?"
Luca took a deliberate sip of his wine, the cool, dark flavour settling his nerves.
"Those expectations," he stated, his eyes cold, "were merely the dictates of my stepmother. She desires a docile, weak bride she can easily manipulate and crush underfoot.
I, on the other hand, desire a wife of formidable strength — one who is capable of wiping the floor with anyone who dares cross her path."
He leaned forward, his voice a low, mocking drawl.
"Besides, there's a distinct advantage to marrying a doctor, don't you think, Enzo? She can, at the very least, tend to one's wounds. Efficiently." He was trying to make him jealous.
It was a deliberate taunt, but Enzo's counter was swift and whispered, delivered with the gravity of a true warning.
"She is a forensic pathologist, Luca. Do you truly want her to mend your wounds — or to simply be the one disassembling your corpse?"
Luca met his gaze with icy calm.
"Enzo, you are a killing the fun. You bore me. I am going to check on my beloved wife. Remaining in your presence is… deeply depressing."
"Go to her," Enzo muttered, crossing his arms in exasperated surrender.
"Just don't come back to me, weeping and begging for assistance when things inevitably implode."
With a final, dismissive look, Luca strode across the room and wrenched open the door to the inner chamber.
His breath hitched.
The bed was empty.
A thin, broken strand of metal glittered near the headboard — shattered handcuffs. The wide window overlooking the estate grounds stood ajar, a faint, cool breeze ruffling the silk curtains, speaking of only one thing: escape.
Luca ran a hand through his hair, a flicker of genuine shock giving way to a frantic, worried smile.
"Enzo will never let me live this down," he whispered, the panic in his voice overshadowed by a strange mixture of admiration and dread.
"If she's gotten away again, I'm gonna be a joke in front of him …"
The moment of bewildered panic dissolved instantly. A faint, almost imperceptible sound drifted from the adjacent suite — the gentle clink of glass on ceramic.
Luca pivoted, confusion sharpening into predatory focus. He moved with the silent grace of a panther, crossing the floor of the darkened apartment. He pushed open the connecting door to the dressing suite — and froze.
She was there.
Seated at the ornate vanity — the coiffeuse — she was the embodiment of serene defiance. A freshly used towel lay discarded on the floor. Her once-tangled hair was now perfectly styled and gleaming, releasing a cloud of expensive perfume into the air.
She was applying a final coat of cherry-red lipstick, her hand precise and unhurried. She didn't look up, but her stillness radiated possession — as if she were settling into a house she'd always owned.
Luca stood there, caught between disbelief and dark amusement.
"How long do you intend to stand there, staring?" Her voice was smooth, velvety, and entirely devoid of warmth — addressed to her reflection.
Luca stepped forward slowly.
"An hour ago, you were spitting fury — a feral thing, biting and struggling. Now, you sit here, grooming yourself with the detachment of an assassin polishing a blade. You even took a bath, with what I presume is a wounded shoulder. You didn't attempt to flee."
"Flee?" She finally turned, tilting her head, her red lips curving in mockery.
"I'm not a fool. You've captured me three times now. I'm simply weary of running. I can escape, Mr. Vitale — but I refuse to live the life of a coward, darting between shadows."
She crossed one elegantly stockinged leg over the other, her posture regal and defiant.
"So, Mr. Luca Vitale, what is your final decree concerning me? Have you finally decided to wash your hands of this farce and sign those accursed annulment papers?"
Luca advanced slowly — a predator closing in. The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken electricity. He stopped just millimetres from her face, close enough to inhale the intoxicating blend of perfume and antiseptic.
"Sign what?" he murmured. "Are we not already husband and wife? We signed the paperwork once. Why repeat the exercise?"
Her sharp eyes searched his for deception.
"You genuinely do not intend to release me?"
He tilted his head, a subtle gesture of refusal.
"Never, my dear."
She laughed sharply — brittle as glass.
"And do you honestly believe I will accept being your wife, simply because you demand it?"
"I don't expect you to," Luca countered smoothly. He began to circle her chair like a panther.
"Let's be logical. I'm exceedingly wealthy. Undeniably handsome—"
"And impossibly arrogant," she interjected, venomous.
"Irrelevant," he replied coolly. "I require a wife — strong, quick-witted, sharp-tongued. Precisely like you."
"Did you just call me sharp-tongued, you bastard?"
"That," Luca said with a smirk, "is exactly what I mean. I need a wife who defends herself, even in my absence. A woman who secures her rights without needing my protection."
Elaine held his gaze with deliberate indifference.
"And what concern is that of mine? There are thousands of strong women in this world. Why must it be me?"
Luca's lips curved in a predatory smile. He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders, leaning close enough for his breath to brush her neck.
"Because, my dear Elaine, you are no better than I am.
A woman barely in her twenties, yet possessing a criminal dossier that reads like the index of a pathology textbook. No respectable man would dare approach you — and your poor grandmother longs to see you settled before her heart gives out completely."
He paused, his tone softening into calculated cruelty.
"I know of the previous engagement. The fiancé who abandoned you — and the heart attack that followed. A frail soul indeed, burdened by your reputation."
Elaine's fingers tightened against the velvet surface.
"Are you attempting to manipulate me with my grandmother's suffering?" she asked coldly. "Pathetic. Try something more original, Luca. And tell me — where did you acquire such an intimate biography of my misfortunes?"
"Manipulation?" He chuckled. "No. Merely stating facts.
You need a man — a strong one — to appease your grandmother. I, in turn, require a wife strong enough to crush my family's opposition. A perfect symbiosis, wouldn't you say?"
He paced slowly, hands behind his back.
"Furthermore, I will gladly fund your… eccentric experiments. Whatever you're attempting to invent, your lab expenses will be covered without question."
Elaine studied him, calculating. The offer was brutally logical — a transaction, not a proposal.
"It sounds less like marriage and more like a corporate acquisition," she remarked dryly. "You'd make an excellent broker, Luca."
He laughed, genuine amusement lighting his face.
"Then tell me — do we have an agreement? It seems profitable for us both."
Elaine rose gracefully, extending her hand. Her voice was calm, practical.
"I had already decided to accept the moment you mentioned your wealth. Deal."
Luca's laughter deepened, rich and resonant. He took her hand — not to shake it, but to lift it slowly to his lips. His gaze never left hers.
"You may indulge yourself lavishly, Madam Vitale," he murmured, his mouth brushing her knuckles — half mocking, half claiming.
The contact sent a strange, cold shiver down her spine.
The bargain was struck.
The game had just begun.