“Put on your clothes,” I say softly, handing her the clothes as I buckle up my pants. She nods, still lying on the sofa, and only when she moves to get dressed do I turn around.
We’re, after all, still in the living room, and I don’t want anyone to even accidentally see her the way I just have—naked, panting, flushed, wrecked. A vision to behold. Given how I can’t control myself around her, I fear no man can, even if there’s death dangled in front of him as a consequence.
Once she’s dressed, I leave her to the rest of her evening and quietly close the door behind me, giving her the privacy she may want.
My pulse still hammers against my temples; my blood still runs hot for her. The taste of Aria lingers on my lips, a reminder of the control I lost moments ago. I flex my fingers, steadying them when everything inside me trembles with the aftershocks of want. Walking away from her costs me more than I care to admit.
Each step toward my office puts the distance I need between me and the wreckage I’ve left behind. Aria—beautiful Aria—with eyes glassy from unshed tears of pleasure and lips swollen from my relentless kisses. I’ve torn down her defenses, stripped away her defiance, until only raw vulnerability remains. The image should satisfy me, but instead, it leaves me hollow.
I find myself questioning if I went too far. I find myself caring.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair, feeling the strands stick to my damp forehead.
I meant to stay in control. I pride myself on my discipline. But something about that blonde hellion dismantles my composure with frightening ease. Even now, knowing the position she’s put herself and me in with her lies, I still want her with an intensity that borders on madness.
I need quiet, distance, and the familiar comfort of business problems that can be solved without this uncomfortable heat in my chest. The heat isn’t just desire. It’s something worse—something that feels dangerously like longing.
I pause when I enter my study, noticing I’m not alone.
“You sounded busy,” comes a familiar voice from the leather chair facing my desk.
My jaw tightens at the realization that we were overheard from the living room. “I don’t recall inviting you to make yourself comfortable in my office, Nicolo.”
Nico turns and grins at me over the chair. “I know,” he shrugs. “But someone has to remind you to focus on work.”
“What is it?” I ask as I walk to take my seat.
“Thought you might want this information immediately,” Nicolo says, tapping a manila folder on the table. “But I can come back later if you’re busy breaking furniture over the DeLuca girl.”
My fingers twitch with the desire to slam Nicolo against a wall. “Whatever you heard—”
“It doesn’t matter what I heard,” he interjects, his dark eyes glinting with something between amusement and concern. He then leans forward, all trace of humor vanishing. “We have a problem, Marco. Two problems, actually.”
“Fabrizio D’Angelo’s men?”
“Still a concern,” Nicolo confirms. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Then?” I ask, leaning forward and folding my hands together.
“Your father is asking questions about your new wife.”
The words drop like stones in still water, sending ripples of unease through me. My father, Aldo Bianchi, rarely concerns himself with my personal life—unless it overlaps with family business. He knew I was marrying a nobody. He took a meeting overseas rather than bother showing up at the wedding once he realized no powerful alliances would be gained. That he’s now asking about Aria…
“What kind of questions?” I keep my voice neutral, giving away none of the sudden tension that coils in my stomach.
Nicolo tosses the folder onto the desk. “See for yourself.”
I open the folder with careful fingers. Inside are surveillance photos, property records, bank statements—all concerning Aria DeLuca and her twin sister, Chiara. My father’s investigators have been thorough, tracing their movements for the past twenty-four hours, documenting their financial struggles, their desperate attempts to stay one step ahead of creditors. But it’s the final pages that make my blood run cold. He’s digging into their background, their parentage, the circumstances of their parents’ deaths twenty-five years ago.
But fortunately, he’s come up empty so far.
“He suspects, doesn’t he?” I ask quietly, looking up at Nicolo.
Nicolo shrugs, a deliberate movement that conveys volumes. “He’s asking the right questions. Whether he’s connected the dots yet… I can’t say.”
I close the folder, my mind racing. My father remembering the DeLuca name is dangerous enough. If he discovers who the twins really are, who their parents were, the consequences would be catastrophic. After all, he thought he’d wiped the bloodline clean off the planet.
“And there’s more,” Nicolo adds, his voice dropping lower. “He wants to meet her.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend.
“A dinner,” he said. “To welcome the woman who’s staying under his son’s roof.”
I shake my head once more. My father rarely makes social overtures without purpose. This is a test, maybe even a trap.
“Does he know about Aria? That I married the wrong twin?”
“I don’t think so,” Nicolo says. “But you won’t be able to hide it forever.”
I say nothing, thoughts whirring in my brain as I consider my admittedly limited options.
“Are you going to tell him who they are?” Nicolo asks, the question hanging between us like smoke.
I look up, meeting his gaze. “Tell him what? That I’m harboring the daughters of the man he took everything from? That I’ve taken one of them to my bed? That I’ve made promises of protection without revealing who exactly I’m protecting her from?”
“Yes,” Nicolo says simply. “That.”
I let out a cold, brittle laugh. “No. He wouldn’t stand for it. He’d see them both dead before sunrise.”
“And you care?” Nicolo raises an eyebrow. “Since when does Marco Bianchi risk family business for a pretty face?”
“This isn’t about her face,” I snap, though the image of Aria—flushed, defiant, beautiful, wrecked—flashes unbidden through my mind. “They’re innocent. They were only babies then.”
“Your father doesn’t believe in innocence,” Nicolo reminds me. “He believes in eliminating threats. And the DeLuca twins, by their very existence, are threats. Your father wasn’t half as powerful when the DeLuca’s were around. He’ll fear to learn the name still exists.”
I run a hand over my stubbled jaw, feeling the rough scratch against my palm. “They don’t know, Nicolo. They have no idea what their parents were involved in, who their family really was.”
“And that’s the second reason I’m here,” Nicolo presses. “They could find out. And then what? When Aria learns her parents didn’t die in an accident—when she discovers that your father, a trusted associate, was responsible for their deaths? That he betrayed them, and how?”
The words land like physical blows. I’ve known this truth since the wedding, ever since my investigators uncovered the twins’ identities.
Their father, Emilio DeLuca, a brilliant and ruthless man, had once upon a time run the greatest crime unit in the country. My father used to work for them, but he grew bitter over time. Emilio kept him on a leash, or so he believed, and in a fight for power, my father succeeded in creating an internal rift, turning Emilio’s men against him. Emilio weakened, and that was when my father struck the final blow.
When Emilio realized he was about to be overthrown, he tried to disappear with his wife and infant daughters. But he trusted the wrong people. In the end, he gave up his girls to his sister, Teresa, and soon after, he and Sofia met their deaths at the end of my father’s barrel.
The girls grew up without knowing any of this, bounced between foster homes, their true heritage erased by time and deliberate obfuscation.
“You need to decide what you’re doing here, Marco,” Nicolo continues when I remain silent. “If this is about revenge for how the girls played you, there are cleaner ways to handle it. If it’s about protecting those girls from your father, you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous register.
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re conflicted. And conflict leads to mistakes.”
I glare at him, tempted to throw him out. But Nicolo’s right—we both know it. This situation has become far more complicated than I ever expected. When I first uncovered who Aria and Chiara really were, my plan was simple: Use their debt as leverage, pull them into my orbit, and decide if they posed a real threat to the Bianchi family. If they did, eliminate them. If not, well, I have no plan for if not.
I hadn’t counted on Aria getting under my skin. Hadn’t anticipated the fierce protectiveness I feel toward her, even knowing her bloodline.
“She doesn’t find out,” I say at last, decision made. “Not about her parents, not about her family connections.”
“Secrets like that have a way of surfacing, Marco. You know this.”
“She won’t.”
“She’s smart, determined. I’ve seen how she watches everything, remembers every detail. She might start digging…”
“Then I’ll handle it,” I cut him off. “For now, not a word to anyone. Not to my father, not to our men, and certainly not to Aria or her sister.”
Nicolo studies me for a long moment, then nods, accepting the order even as doubt shadows his eyes.
“But be careful, Marco. If Aria discovers that her heritage traces back to one of the most powerful families in Sicily, she won’t just leave you. She’ll come for blood. Her father’s people… they don’t forgive. Ever.”
“I’m aware,” I say tightly.
Nicolo rises from his chair, straightening his jacket with practiced hands. “I’ll stall your father as long as I can—buy you some time to figure out your next move.” He pauses at the door. “Just remember who you are, Marco. Remember what’s at stake.”
After Nicolo leaves, I sit motionless, confused than ever before.
Who am I? The cold-blooded enforcer who built his reputation on calculated violence? Or the man who just walked away from Aria minutes ago because I couldn’t bear to see the potential regret in her eyes?
I move to my desk and open the folder again, my fingers tracing over a photograph of Aria. She looks younger in the surveillance shot, her hair caught by the wind, her expression unguarded as she laughs at something beyond the camera’s frame. So different from the woman who stood before me earlier, her voice steady even as her body trembled, claiming her loyalty to her sister.
That’s what draws me to her. Not just her beauty or the fire in her eyes when she defies me. It’s her loyalty—absolute, unflinching, even when it costs her everything. She lied to protect Chiara, placed herself between her sister and my wrath without hesitation.
I’ve never encountered that kind of loyalty in a woman before. In my world, relationships are transactions—alliances shifting with the winds of advantage. But Aria… she remembers every kindness, cherishes every sacrifice. From what she told me, as children, Chiara took punishments meant for Aria. And for what happened decades ago, Aria gave up her freedom.
A woman who never forgets a favor is a rare and valuable ally. But a woman who never forgets a wrong—that’s something far more dangerous. I wonder if Aria is as quick to forget a wrong as she is to repay a debt.
I close the folder, decision crystallizing like ice in my veins. I will protect Aria—from my father, from D’Angelo, from her past, from the truth itself if necessary.
Not just because her ignorance serves my purposes, but because the very thought of her walking away from me—of seeing her gaze filled with hatred—sends a cold dread through me that I refuse to confront.
For now, she’s mine. My responsibility, my problem, my… obsession, if I’m honest with myself.
And Marco Bianchi protects what’s his, no matter the cost.
Even if I’m the liar now.
