Chapter 2 — The Wedding

Sophia

The silence in the vintage car was suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the engine as it wound its way up the long, cobblestoned drive to the DeLuca mansion. My fingers curled tightly around the thin chain of my locket, the cool gold pressing into my palm—a steadying weight against the nausea twisting in my stomach. The faint scent of leather and damp fabric filled the enclosed space, mingling with the oppressive tension.

Ahead, the mansion loomed like an unfeeling monolith, hewn from stone that seemed to have emerged from the earth itself. Its tall, arched windows reflected the dull, overcast sky, giving the illusion that the house had no soul. It was too grand, too cold—a fortress built to keep the world out and its secrets in. A cage. And I was walking into it willingly.

“You’ll be fine,” my father murmured beside me, though his voice carried no conviction. His hands rested on his lap, trembling slightly, the knotted veins standing out against his sallow skin. He hadn’t looked me in the eye since this arrangement had been made.

I didn’t respond. What could I say? His debts had brought us here, to this moment. To this deal. As much as I wanted to hate him—for the nights I’d spent holding Matteo as he cried, for the fear that had seeped into every corner of our lives—I couldn’t. Not completely.

The car came to a smooth stop. The driver stepped out and opened the door. I followed, smoothing the simple ivory dress I wore. It was understated, almost plain, devoid of the lace and embellishments one might expect for a wedding. That had been deliberate. A quiet rebellion. A way to remind myself that this was my choice, even if it was no choice at all.

The air was damp, carrying the faint metallic tang of rain, a fitting backdrop to the scene before me. The crowd gathered on the mansion’s grand lawn was a sea of unfamiliar faces. Men in sharp suits and women in muted dresses stood in tight clusters, their conversations low and calculated, like whispered negotiations before a battle. They held their champagne glasses like weapons, their sharp eyes scanning for any hint of weakness. A few glanced toward me, their expressions unreadable but assessing, as though measuring my worth—or lack of it.

At the center of it all stood Luca DeLuca.

Even from across the lawn, his presence was magnetic, commanding. He was tall and composed, his dark suit tailored to perfection. His jet-black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his gray eyes swept the gathering with the precision of a predator surveying its prey. When his gaze landed on me, it was like a steel trap snapping shut.

I forced my feet to move, one step at a time. The path between us stretched endlessly, though in reality, it took only seconds to reach him. As I approached, I caught the faint scent of his cologne—sharp, clean, and cold, like cedarwood and frost. The weight of the guests’ stares pressed down on me, and for a moment, it felt as though the earth itself might collapse beneath my feet.

“Miss Moretti,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. He didn’t offer his hand, didn’t incline his head in greeting. He simply watched me, his expression unreadable.

“Mr. DeLuca,” I replied, my tone steadier than I felt.

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing toward the archway draped in white fabric, where the ceremony would take place.

I nodded, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes on me as we moved to stand before the officiant. The ceremony itself was brief, almost clinical. There were no personal vows, no joyful declarations of love. Just a series of formal words exchanged beneath the watchful eyes of his associates and my father’s shame.

When the officiant asked for the rings, Luca’s right-hand man, Marco, stepped forward. His broad frame cast a long shadow over us, nearly blocking out the overcast sky. There was a stillness in him, a quiet authority that felt deliberate. As he handed Luca a small velvet box, his sharp eyes flicked toward me, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. His lips curved into something that might have been a smile or a smirk—it was impossible to tell.

Luca slid the platinum band onto my finger with the efficiency of someone closing a transaction. His touch was cool, impersonal, and the weight of the ring felt foreign against my skin. For a brief moment, I studied the lion’s head engraving on his signet ring as I slipped it onto his finger. It gleamed in the dull light, a symbol of power and control. The contrast between the delicate thinness of my band and the imposing weight of his was not lost on me.

“It is done,” the officiant declared, his voice carrying over the still air.

The crowd applauded—a polite, measured smattering of claps that felt more like the closing of a prison door than a celebration. Overhead, a gust of wind caught the edges of the white fabric draped along the archway, causing it to ripple like a restless ghost.

Luca turned to me, his gray eyes searching mine. “Smile,” he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear.

I obeyed, though the effort felt monumental. My lips curved into the faintest imitation of a smile as he led me down the aisle toward the mansion. The guests parted as we passed, their gazes heavy with unspoken judgment and curiosity. I caught snippets of conversation—soft whispers about alliances, the family’s debts, and the spectacle of it all. One woman’s laugh was sharp enough to draw blood.

Inside, the air was cooler, tinged with the faint scent of aged leather and polished wood. The marble floors gleamed like mirrors, reflecting the high, cavernous ceilings. The space was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—sharp, cold, and dangerous.

“Your room is in the east wing,” Luca said as we stopped at the base of the grand staircase. His tone was distant, but his gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary. There was something there, a flicker of… hesitation? Restraint? I couldn’t tell.

“Separate rooms, then?” I asked, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

He studied me, his expression unreadable. “I assumed you would prefer it that way.”

I swallowed hard, unsure whether to feel relieved or insulted. “Thank you,” I said finally, though the words felt hollow.

Marco appeared then, his presence as imposing as ever. “I’ll show her to her room,” he said, his tone clipped, his gaze flickering briefly to Luca before settling on me. There was something unsettling about the way he stood, his shoulders too stiff, his eyes sharp and watchful.

Luca nodded but didn’t move. I could feel his eyes on me as I followed Marco up the stairs, his gaze a shadow I couldn’t shake.

The room Marco led me to was spacious but devoid of warmth. The furniture was dark and heavy, the windows draped in thick curtains that blocked out the gray daylight. My suitcase sat neatly at the foot of the bed, untouched.

“You’ll find everything you need here,” Marco said, his voice curt and impersonal. He hesitated for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning the room as though searching for something out of place. Then, with a slight nod, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the day settling over me like a lead blanket. My fingers found the locket around my neck, tracing its familiar ridges. I opened it, staring at the tiny portrait of my mother and the folded drawing Matteo had sketched years ago.

“I’ll protect you,” I whispered, the words more a promise to myself than to her memory or Matteo.

A knock at the door startled me, and I quickly snapped the locket shut, tucking it beneath the neckline of my dress.

“Come in,” I called, my voice steadier than I felt.

The door opened to reveal Luca, his tall frame filling the doorway. For a moment, neither of us spoke. He looked almost out of place in this room—too sharp, too calculated for the stillness that surrounded us.

“I wanted to remind you,” he said finally, his voice measured, “that this arrangement is for convenience, nothing more. You’ll be afforded every comfort, but you are expected to respect the limits of your role.”

“And what role is that?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.

His lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped closer, his gaze steady and unyielding. “That remains to be seen,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that made my breath catch.

He turned and left without another word, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the closed door. The weight of the ring on my finger felt heavier than it should have, a constant reminder of the cage I now found myself in. But cages, I reminded myself, could be broken.

And this one would be no different.