"Then welcome to the family, Signora."
His voice, a low, smooth baritone, held a careless finality — the words a perfunctory blessing before he turned on his heel, clearly intent on making a swift, indifferent exit. He was a masterpiece of casual male arrogance, his dark suit impeccable, his movements economical and decisive.
Before he could take a second step towards the door, a sudden, firm grip closed around his shoulder, yanking him back. He was spun to face her, the force of the turn leaving a momentary confusion in his slate-grey eyes. Without preamble, she seized the silk knot of his tie — a gesture so bold, so possessive — and pulled sharply, dragging his face down to hers.
"W-w-wait," she sputtered, her chest heaving with indignation, her eyes flashing like agitated emeralds. "Just like that? Between one breath and the next, I am your wife?"
He met her furious gaze with a calculated blankness, a slight, almost imperceptible lift of one dark eyebrow the only sign of his amusement.
"Why? Is there a problem?" he drawled, his tone laced with patronising ennui.
"The problem?" Her voice rose, tight with incredulity. "Look at this!"
With a furious gesture, she indicated her entire form — the expensive, but clearly not bridal, dress clinging to her curves.
His gaze, slow and appraising, travelled a deliberate path from the delicate curve of her ankle, past the enticing flare of her hips, and up to the décolletage where the fabric strained tautly.
"I see no problem with your form, my dear," he mused, his eyes darkening momentarily with appreciation. "It is, in a word, perfect. That is a truly magnificent derrière, by the way. And your breasts are an excellent size — superb, in fact."
She immediately folded her arms across her chest, a shield against his insolent scrutiny, and glared at him with undisguised venom.
"You! Get your eyes off my chest! I was talking about the dress, not my body!"
A low "Hmmph" escaped him. His lips quirked, a hint of a wicked smile playing there, but his eyes, stubbornly, frustratingly, remained fixed on the expanse she now guarded.
"The dress, you say."
Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against the defensive silk over her heart.
"Are you even listening to me? Do you not possess an ounce of self-respect, a shard of gentlemanly decency, to inspect my body like this?"
A genuinely sly smile finally broke across his face — a sudden, devastating flash of charm that did little to soothe her rage.
"We are already married," he pointed out, his voice a velvety murmur. "And I learned something from childhood: if one sees a great blessing, one must give it its full measure of appreciation."
"I don't care! Spare me your trivialities," she bit back, stepping away to regain her space. "A mere piece of paper does not make me your wife. Where is my wedding gown? Where is my ceremony? And most importantly," she lifted her hand high, palm turned out for his inspection, "I see no ring here. Do you?"
He retreated to a plush leather armchair, sinking into its depths with the air of a man settling in for a tiresome, yet inevitable, performance. He listened to her tirade with a maddening composure that only inflamed her further.
"You are a woman, after all," he finally conceded, leaning his head back and studying the ceiling with an air of profound boredom. "You want a wedding? You shall have it. For my part, only Enzo will attend, as a witness. I have no plans to invite my family. You are free to invite whomever you wish."
"From my side," she announced, her chin jutting out in a challenge, "I shall only invite my grandmother and Sofia."
He lowered his gaze to her, a spark of surprise momentarily disrupting his detachment.
"A modest affair, then?"
"The important thing is that I have a wedding," she corrected, her voice resolute. "I am not some girl you plucked from the street and dubbed your wife. I demand my full rights, as promised. Besides, I need to convince my grandmother that my marriage is one of love."
"And you shall have every right, as I promised you," he replied, finally rising, ready to execute his previous exit. "Now, I must..."
She crossed the space between them in a flash, catching his arm and anchoring him in place. Then, with an elegant sweep of her hand, she gestured to the sofa.
"Hold on. I haven't finished speaking."
His jaw tightened, a muscle clenching visibly under his tanned skin.
"You are audacious to do this. Have you forgotten who I am?"
She took a daring step closer, her index finger reaching up to trace the line of his stubbled chin, her voice dropping to a seductive, yet utterly calculating, whisper.
"My dear husband."
He swallowed hard, subtly shifting his weight as if trying to physically avoid the lure of her touch.
"Then what is it you want?"
"Money."
"What?"
"Money," she repeated, dropping the flirtatious tone for a sharp, business-like demand. "With what shall I organise all these matters? With funds. Give them to me."
A genuine, booming laugh finally escaped him — a sound that filled the sterile, opulent room and broke the tense atmosphere.
"Is that all? Enzo will see to it. Anything else... Your Majesty?"
A triumphant, confident smile curved her lips.
"There is much more, but I shall defer it until after the wedding. But do you know what the most pressing issue is right now?"
"What?"
"Do you people not eat here?"
He stared at her, genuinely perplexed.
"What?"
"It has been two days without food," she stated plainly, her dramatic indignation replaced by a very real, very practical hunger. "You're not trying to starve me, are you?"
He ran a hand through his dark hair, a look of utter distraction crossing his face.
"I completely forgot about you. You can go out to one of the restaurants. I'll assign you an escort. But before that, you need to follow me."
"Where are we going? As you can clearly see, I am barefoot. This can wait."
He paused, studying her with a gaze that held a frustrating mixture of irritation and something akin to reluctant admiration. The delicate curve of her bare feet was an intriguing contrast to the tempestuous fire in her eyes.
Without a word, he moved. His hands swept under her, and before she could fully comprehend his intention, he hoisted her — not into a romantic bridal carry, but over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
She shrieked — a sound of pure, aristocratic outrage — as he strode down the long, silent corridors of the mansion, her hair flying wildly.
"Is this how you carry a woman? You brute! You infuriating clod!"
"Just endure it. We're nearly there," he clipped out, his voice a low rumble near her ear, entirely unaffected by her flailing. "I am not prepared to receive lessons in romance right now."
Initially, she struggled, fists pounding ineffectually against the expensive wool of his suit jacket. But hunger, that most base and pragmatic of needs, soon sapped her energy, leaving her breathless and unwilling to continue the pointless argument. She surrendered to the ignominy of the ride.
He finally carried her into a vast, darkly panelled office — a space that radiated cold, masculine power — and unceremoniously deposited her onto a high-backed leather chair.
"Now what?" she demanded, smoothing her skirt with an air of wounded dignity.
He produced a small, silver-cased device from his pocket and moved towards her. He reached out, his grip firm yet careful, as he gently rotated her neck and fixed her in place with his hand.
"What are you doing?" Her voice was laced with suspicion.
"I am implanting a minuscule tracking chip — a biometric tag — beneath the skin of your neck," he stated, his proximity unnervingly intimate. His eyes, fixed on the delicate line of her jaw, were utterly serious. "It is tiny, barely noticeable, and will allow me to know your location at all times. It is a necessary measure."
She shoved him back with a fierce burst of energy, leaping to her feet.
"Am I your pet, to have these barbaric contraptions placed on me?"
He didn't flinch, merely pushing her back into the chair, his hands locking around her slender wrists, pinning her down.
"You have a colourful history of attempting to escape, my dear. What did you expect? That I would grant you free reign to walk out and disappear?"
She drove her foot sharply into his shin. He inhaled a sharp, pained gasp, but his grip remained iron-firm.
"Ease your hold on my wrists," she gritted out, her breathing rapid. "I understand."
He finally eased his hands, allowing him to place the chip. The brief, sharp sting of the procedure was a fresh insult, but she bore it in silence, her eyes never leaving his.
As soon as he withdrew the insertion device, she snatched it from his hand with a lightning-quick move.
"What do you intend to do with that?" he asked, a genuine flicker of surprise in his expression.
She hauled him forward by his lapels, burying his face against her chest. Without a sound, she pressed the device against his own skin and drove the matching chip into him. He offered no resistance, standing stock-still in the sudden, intoxicating proximity.
She finally pulled back, a glint of triumph in her eyes.
"I can't believe you let me implant the exact same chip in you so easily."
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face, his eyes heavy-lidded as he looked down at her.
"I was momentarily lost in paradise. Why should I concern myself with a mere chip?"
He paused, leaning down until his breath stirred the hair above her ear.
"Besides," he added, his tone laced with a dangerous possessiveness, "it is your right, as my wife, to know my whereabouts."
She let out a short, incredulous burst of laughter and covered her eyes with her palm, momentarily overwhelmed by his sheer audacity.
"If you are finished with this absolute nonsense, I require an audience with my grandmother. I have been absent from home for days; she must be worried. And I must inform her of this... arrangement."
"Naturally," he replied, his voice regaining its professional smoothness, the interlude of intimacy seemingly dismissed. "I must, of course, accompany you. It is only right that I greet her and formally request her blessing for our union. Shall we go now?"
The heavy door creaked open, and Enzo entered, silent as ever, a small velvet box in his gloved hand. Without a word, he extended it toward Luca and left just as swiftly.
Luca opened the box, revealing a pair of delicate high heels, elegant and understated. He knelt before her — the motion so unexpected that it robbed her of breath — and, with precise movements, slipped the shoes onto her feet.
Before she could recover from the gesture, he straightened, took her by the hand, and guided her outside. The car awaited — sleek, black, and glinting faintly under the pale light.
They drove in silence for a while, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Her thoughts swirled, tangled between suspicion and a strange, reluctant calm.
Then, without warning, he took a sharp turn, the tires whispering against the asphalt as the car sped up.
She turned to him, frowning. "Why are we—"
He didn't look at her, his eyes fixed on the road, his expression infuriatingly composed. Then, almost lazily, he smiled.
"We're being followed," he said softly. "Put on your seatbelt, honey."