I see the sun’s rays peeking out just beyond the horizon.
Just like that, my wedding came and went, but the outcome was nothing like I had imagined.
The large diamond on my finger feels like a shackle—heavy and suffocating. I fight the urge to rip it off. My gown lies abandoned on the floor, exactly where I left it last night after kicking my husband out of my room.
I barely spoke to him, yet I felt his presence like a shadow lingering in the air.
Matteo Davacalli. My husband.
A man I know nothing about, yet one I am now bound to for life.
I didn’t even see his reaction when I locked the door on him last night—did he care? Or was I just another transaction to him?
I wish it were all a bad dream. But no matter how many times I close my eyes and take a deep breath, when I open them… I’m still here.
“Fuck.” I roll into my pillow, stifling the scream building in my chest. “Why?”
The questions torment me, playing on an endless loop.
Why did my brother have to die? Why did I have to get married? Why did Daniele leave?
Why did I have to leave behind everything I knew?
But it’s not just that. I can’t stop wondering—what kind of man have I married? A ruthless killer? A cold strategist? Or something even worse?
I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
I could run.
If I packed a bag now and left at dawn, I could be in Milan by eight, on a plane to some remote island by ten.
No one would find me.
I glance at my closet. The thought of grabbing a bag, stuffing it with essentials, and slipping out before dawn is tempting.
But no matter how far I ran, the weight of my last name would catch up to me.
Matteo would catch up to me.
And something tells me he isn’t the type of man to let his wife simply disappear.
Then, I remember my parents. They never forced me into this world. They never asked for anything from me—until now.
With Antonio buried six feet under, there’s no one left to shoulder the burden of the Faravelli name.
Except me.
I throw the sheets off my body and head into the bathroom. The house is still, the world outside still asleep. The hot water burns against my skin, but I let it, hoping it will wash away the weight pressing down on me. It doesn’t. In just a few hours, I’ll be on a plane to a place I haven’t seen in almost a decade.
By the time I’m dressed and step out of my closet, my mother is sitting on my bed, clad in black. She is still in mourning.
She lifts her head at the sound of my footsteps, her eyes red-rimmed, tears glistening in the soft morning light.
“Mamá.” I sit beside her. “It’s early. Why are you up? You did so much yesterday at the wedding.”
She shakes her head. “I only have a few more hours with you, amore. I need to spend as much time with you as possible. How are you feeling?”
I hesitate. “I’m fine. Tired, but fine. You packed my bags for me.”
She follows my gaze to the neatly lined suitcases. A faint smile tugs at her lips. “I didn’t want you to have to worry about anything.” She turns back to me. “I packed a few of my jewelry pieces—things you may want for galas and events. You’ll need them as Matteo’s wife.”
My stomach tightens. “Mamá, you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” She takes my hand. “Promise me you won’t lock yourself away in your room and draw all day. Go out. See the city. Experience life.”
I scoff. “Do you really think the overbearing mafia Warlord is going to let me go clubbing in Manhattan?”
She cups my cheek, a small, wistful smile on her lips. “Not clubbing, cara. There is more to life than drowning yourself in alcohol. I want you to breathe. To live. To love.”
Her words are hopeful, but hope is a foreign concept to me now. My fate is sealed. I can try to find the light amid the darkness, but one thing is certain—the light won’t be found in a city I barely know or in a man I will never love.
She sighs. “You are so brave, my girl. I wish you didn’t have to go, but I feel in my heart that, as unfair as this is, it will be good for you.”
I lean into her touch. “I wish I didn’t have to go either, Mamá.”
Tears well in her eyes. “We have been joined at the hip since you were born.” Her voice wavers. “But now, you are a wife. And soon, you will be a mother.”
A heavy silence falls between us. She doesn’t need to say what we’re both thinking. Antonio should have been here. We should be celebrating love, not mourning loss.
A knock at the door breaks the moment.
“Come in.”
My father steps inside, his face unreadable. The dark circles under his eyes speak louder than any words.
“We need to get to the tarmac,” he says. “Matteo has a tight schedule.”
I nod. “Of course.”
Without another word, he leaves. My mother exhales shakily.
“Papá and I…” She trails off, her lips pressing together. “This whole ordeal has been hard. We have never been at odds before.”
Guilt twists in my gut. “I’m sorry, Mamá. He’s trying to do what’s best for the family. For you.”
“It’s going to take me some time to come to terms with the fact that I’ll only see you during the holidays now—not whenever my heart aches for you.”
I nod, her words settling between us like a quiet weight. “We should go.”
The longer I stay, the harder it becomes. I need to walk away before the ache has a chance to take hold.
“Okay.”
The drive to the airport is steeped in silence. Tension thickens the air, a heavy weight pressing on my chest.
Matteo sits beside me in the back, his attention fixed on his phone, fingers moving swiftly over the screen. Every now and then, he flips through a file, his expression unreadable. He hasn’t looked at me once. Not in the car. Not since this morning.
What is he thinking?
I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye, searching for something—anything—that might reveal what goes on behind that face. His jaw is sharp, clenched, as if he’s grinding his teeth in concentration.
Is he already regretting this marriage?
Does he resent me as much as I resent him?
I barely know him, yet I am bound to him. Matteo Davacalli—the man whispered about in the mafia underworld, a figure as feared as he is respected. But what is he like beyond the reputation? As a man? As a husband?
I know nothing about him.
A part of me wonders what he was like with his first wife. Did he love her? Did he look at her with warmth, with care? Or was she just another obligation, just as I am?
The thought unsettles me, though I don’t know why.
The jet looms ahead, and reality crashes down with full force.
I’m leaving.
“Say your goodbyes.”
Matteo’s voice is calm, detached. The first words he’s spoken to me all morning. Then, without another glance, he strides toward the jet, his presence commanding even in silence.
I watch him for a moment—his calculated movements, the way he barely acknowledges me. A stranger. A ghost of a man I am meant to call my husband.
He doesn’t care.
I shouldn’t care either.
“Come, Maria.”
My father steps out of the car first, followed by my mother. I force myself to follow, my body stiff, resisting every step. The staff come to the car and begin to offload the car with all our bags, and I just stand there next to my parents.
My mother pulls me into a tight embrace, her tears soaking into my shoulder. “Call me as soon as you land. FaceTime every week. Reply to my messages so I know you’re safe.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“If you need me, I’ll be on the first jet out—”
“We don’t have the jet anymore, amore,” my father interjects gently.
She whips around, glaring. “Then you will buy one, Marcello. You are still in the doghouse.”
A flicker of amusement crosses my father’s face—just for a moment.
That alone tells me they will be fine.
She turns back, pressing kisses to my cheeks and forehead. “Ciao, cara mia.”
I cling to her warmth, memorizing it. “Ciao, Mamá.”
When I step away, my father meets my gaze. “You have made me proud, Maria. I have asked much of you, and you understood your duty. If you ever need me—no matter how big or small—I am a phone call away.”
The sincerity in his words is rare, but I hold onto it.
I walk into his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of him. For a moment, I am a little girl again, safe in his steady embrace.
“Ciao, Papá.”
I turn and walk toward the jet, my steps measured.
Matteo is waiting.
His hands in his pockets, his expression impossible to read.
I study him—his posture is relaxed, but there’s an underlying tension in his shoulders. Controlled. Measured. As if nothing in the world could rattle him.
Does he feel nothing?
Or is he simply that good at hiding it?
I step past him. He barely acknowledges me, shifting slightly to let me go first—just enough space to force me to brush against him. The briefest contact.
I glance back one last time. My mother is openly crying now, my father holding her close.
I press a hand to my chest. “Ti amo.”
They mouth the words back.
The entire ride from the manor to the airport, he has kept a distance from me, as if allowing me to have these last moments with my parents undisturbed.
I guess the Warlord is capable of compassion and empathy.
Then I turn away, stepping into the jet.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Davacalli. My name is Stephanie, and I’ll be taking care of you today.”
She barely looks at me. Her attention remains fixed on Matteo, her gaze lingering far longer than necessary.
Blonde. Skinny. Blue-eyed. Starving for attention. How typical.
I shake off the irritation and move past her. She doesn’t offer to take my bag, but when Matteo steps in behind me, she practically stumbles over herself to relieve him of his laptop case.
Pathetic.
The flight attendant deposits his bag beside him, her hand ‘accidentally’ brushing against his rolled-up sleeve.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I do not care. I do not care.
I move to my seat, and Matteo drops into the one directly across from me.
I steal a glance at him. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second.
There’s something in his gaze—it’s not cold or cruel.
I don’t know what it is.
But it terrifies me.
Then, he looks away and flips open his file.
What’s going on inside that head of yours, Matteo?
Stephanie leans in unnecessarily close. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Davacalli?” Her voice is syrupy sweet. “Water, wine…”
I nearly choke. Is she serious?
My eyes snap to Matteo, waiting for him to shut this down. But he simply nods, flipping through his file as if she doesn’t exist. “Thank you, Stephanie.”
She preens under the minimal acknowledgment. “Of course. I’m at your beck and call.”
My fingers curl against my thigh.
I do not care. I do not care.
But I do.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and rise. Fifteen minutes before takeoff. More than enough time.
Stephanie startles when I step into the galley.
“Yes?” she asks, her tone clipped.
I smile, resting my hand on the counter—making sure my wedding ring catches the light.
“Stephanie,” I say smoothly, “I get it. My husband is attractive. Most women seem to think so. And while I usually find it amusing, what I don’t tolerate is blatant disrespect. Especially not in front of me.”
Her lips part, but I lift a finger, silencing her.
“The only acceptable response here is ‘Yes, Mrs. Davacalli.’”
A pause.
“Yes, Mrs. Davacalli,” she murmurs.
I offer a sweet, pointed smile. “Good. Now, bring my husband a bottle of water. Mine should be sparkling—room temperature.”
I clap once and turn away, feeling victorious.
I pause when I see Matteo holding my notebook. My breath catches.
I storm over and rip it from his hands. “Excuse you.”
Shutting the book, I press it to my chest. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to dig through people’s things?”
“You’re actually really good.” He ignores my irritation, his eyes piercing through my soul. “Quite good, I might add.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and my fingers tighten around the notebook. “Stop touching my stuff, Matteo. It’s not yours to snoop through.”
I drop into my seat and buckle my belt, refusing to meet his gaze. I can only hope he didn’t flip through it. No one has ever seen my sketches—I never allowed anyone to. They were deeply personal.
Matteo leans back, watching me. “It fell to the floor, and I accidentally saw the drawing. I was just curious—I didn’t mean to.”
He tries to engage me again, but I keep my mouth shut and my eyes locked on the window.
What do you see, Matteo? What are you thinking?
But I don’t ask. I don’t want to know.
My parents are no longer on the tarmac, and the jet begins to roll out.
This is going to be a long flight.
And an even longer life with this man.
