Chapter 3 — The Reluctant Groom

Luca

The study reeked of leather and aged whiskey, an oppressive, familiar weight that clung to Luca DeLuca like a second skin. The faint hum of the city beyond Villa DeLuca’s thick walls teased at a freedom he could not reach. His fingers brushed the gilded spine of a forgotten tome on the towering bookshelf, a distraction as much as a habit. Across the room, Vittorio DeLuca sat behind his mahogany desk, his fingers steepled as though in mock prayer.

The brass lamp cast harsh shadows over the patriarch’s angular face, carving his features into something sharper, something less human. “You will marry her,” Vittorio said, his words as soft and cutting as the edge of a blade.

Luca stilled, his fingers freezing mid-motion. His gray eyes, cold and calculating, flicked to his father. “And why, exactly, would I agree to this?” he asked. His tone was measured, a masterwork of indifference, but his jaw tightened, betraying the tension coiled beneath his skin.

Vittorio’s lips curved in a faint smile, devoid of warmth. “Because it is necessary. The Moretti family is desperate. Their power crumbles, their resources dwindle. They need this alliance to survive.” The chair creaked beneath him as he leaned forward, his shadow stretching long across the room. “And we, my son, need their desperation.”

Luca turned from the desk, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the stormy sea. Waves crashed against the cliffs below, their relentless fury a mirror to the turmoil roiling in his mind.

“So, you think marrying me off to Serena Moretti will secure their loyalty?” His voice was clipped, each word deliberate.

“They will have no choice,” Vittorio replied smoothly, his confidence unshakable. “The Moretti girl is the key to keeping them in line. Her father is a man of pride, but pride bends easily when the stakes are high enough.”

Luca turned back to face him, his gaze sharp as steel. “And what if she refuses? Or do you plan to drag her to the altar in chains?”

Vittorio chuckled, low and menacing. “She will comply. If not for herself, then for her brother. She’s predictable like that—softhearted, like her mother was. That will be her undoing.”

A flicker of something—anger? Resentment?—tightened Luca’s chest. His father’s casual cruelty, the way he dismissed people as pawns on his board, grated against something buried deep within him. He forced the emotion down, locking it away before it could surface.

“And what of me?” Luca asked, quieter now, colder. “Do I have a say in this, or is this just another of your moves in the game?”

Vittorio’s smile vanished. He rose from his chair, adjusting his cufflinks with practiced precision. The faint metallic click echoed in the stillness. “You are my heir, Luca. The future of this family. You don’t have the luxury of choice. Your duty is to secure our legacy, no matter the cost.”

The words pressed down on Luca like the weight of iron chains, but his face betrayed nothing. Silence stretched between them, taut and crackling. Decades of unspoken tension lay buried in the space between father and son, a battlefield neither dared to acknowledge fully.

Finally, Vittorio spoke again, his tone softer but no less commanding. “This union will strengthen our position. It will consolidate power and ensure the DeLuca name remains untouchable.” His dark eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “It is a small price to pay for what we stand to gain. And in time, you will see the wisdom in this arrangement.”

Wisdom. That word hung in the air, heavy and bitter. This was what his father called it—the calculated cruelty, the endless sacrifices demanded in the name of power. Luca’s lips pressed into a thin line as his mind raced, dissecting every angle, every implication.

He thought of the Morettis’ desperation, of the leverage it could give him. This marriage, as loathsome as it was, could be an opportunity to further his own plans. If he played his cards right, it could be the first move toward fulfilling the promise he had made to his late mother: to reform the DeLuca empire, to break the cycle of violence and corruption.

“I’ll do it,” he said at last, his voice firm, hollow. “But don’t mistake this for loyalty. This is strategy, nothing more.”

A flicker of triumph lit Vittorio’s face, sharp and cutting. “Good. I knew you’d see reason.”

Without another word, Luca turned sharply on his heel and left the study. The heavy oak door closed behind him with a soft thud, but the oppressive atmosphere clung to him like a shadow.

His footsteps echoed faintly in the dimly lit corridor, the flickering sconces casting erratic shadows along the stone walls. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms—a silent testament to the frustration he refused to show in his father’s presence.

When he pushed open the glass door leading to the terrace, the wind hit him like a blade. Sharp and cold, it carried the scent of salt and rain, whipping at his tailored coat. He stepped forward, gripping the iron railing as he stared out at the churning ocean. The waves crashed violently against the cliffs below, their chaos a reflection of the storm within him.

Serena Moretti. The name felt foreign on his tongue, though he knew her by reputation. A social worker, of all things—a woman who had spent years trying to distance herself from her family’s empire. He could respect that, even admire it, though he doubted she had the strength to survive the world they inhabited.

Still, the thought of being bound to her—to anyone—left him uneasy. Trust was a luxury he could not afford, not in a world where betrayal was currency and alliances were as fragile as glass.

He exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the crisp night air. Rumors painted her as fiery and principled, a woman who would not bend easily. That could complicate things. Or, perhaps, it could make them more interesting. Blind obedience bored him. A challenge, on the other hand? That was something he could work with.

His gaze dropped to the signet ring on his finger, the lion and dagger catching the faint light from the villa’s windows. Its weight was a constant reminder of his inheritance, of the chains he had vowed to break. He thought of his mother—of her quiet strength, her unyielding hope that he could be different. He had made her a promise once, at the edge of her grave: to create something better, something that would honor her memory.

This marriage, forced and strategic as it was, could be a step toward that goal. If Serena was as strong-willed as the whispers suggested, perhaps she could be more than a complication. Perhaps she could be an ally.

The wind howled, tugging at his coat, but Luca straightened, his resolve hardening. He would do what was necessary. He always did. But he would do it on his terms.

And as for Serena Moretti? She was an unknown. A challenge. Perhaps even a weapon.

Either way, Luca DeLuca thrived on complications.