Chapter 1 - The Man Everyone Expected Me to Fear
I came to the mountain estate expecting to marry a Mafia boss I had never met.
Instead, I tripped over my own suitcase, grabbed his expensive shirt, and nearly pulled him into my arms.
Everyone in the room stared at me.
But the look in Luca Moretti's eyes wasn't anger.
It was the look of a man already expecting me to reject him.
And somehow, standing there with both fists tangled in the front of his black shirt, I became determined to be the first woman who didn't.
The car from the airport had climbed for nearly forty minutes before the gates appeared.
Iron.
Old stone.
Security cameras.
Beyond them, Lake Como stretched beneath the mountains like a sheet of blue glass.
I'd spent the entire drive rehearsing what I would say.
Hello, Mr. Moretti. I'm Sophia Bennett.
Too formal.
Hi, Luca. Apparently our fathers have decided we're getting married.
Too sarcastic.
Please tell me you think this arrangement is as insane as I do.
Probably too honest.
My father had called it an agreement.
I called it what it was.
A debt.
He had spent years building Bennett Bakery from one little storefront into a respectable Chicago business. Then came the expansion, the loans, the failed second location, and a series of decisions he refused to explain.
Three months earlier, he'd sat across from me at our kitchen table and told me there was one way to make everything disappear.
Marriage.
To Luca Moretti.
I'd laughed.
My father hadn't.
That was when I knew my life had changed.
The driver opened my door.
I stepped out.
My suitcase wheel immediately caught between two stones.
"Of course," I muttered.
Two men in black suits waited beside the entrance.
Neither smiled.
"Ms. Bennett?" one asked.
"That's me."
I pulled the suitcase free.
"Sorry. Long flight."
Nothing.
Not even a pity smile.
The Moretti estate rose behind them, three stories of pale stone and enormous windows overlooking the lake.
It wasn't a house.
It was the sort of place that made you wonder whether the architect had been specifically instructed to make visitors feel poor.
Inside, the foyer smelled like polished wood, beeswax, and cold marble.
A crystal chandelier hung above me.
A sweeping staircase curved toward the second floor.
And halfway down it stood a woman who looked as though she'd been waiting to judge me.
She was perhaps thirty.
Dark hair.
Sharp cheekbones.
Elegant cream dress.
Her gaze moved from my shoes to my dress to the suitcase that had already betrayed me once.
"You're smaller than I pictured," she said.
"I get that a lot."
Her eyebrow lifted.
"Usually followed by a compliment I don't ask for."
For the first time, her expression cracked.
Barely.
"I'm Elena."
"Sophia."
"I know."
There was something about the way she said it that made me pause.
Before I could ask, a door opened down the hall.
A man's voice carried through the foyer.
Low.
Controlled.
Italian.
I understood only enough to know that whoever was speaking wasn't asking for permission.
Then he stepped through the doorway.
And the doorway suddenly looked too small.
I'd been told Luca Moretti was large.
That description was ridiculous.
Luca Moretti wasn't large.
Luca Moretti was enormous.
Six foot six, maybe more.
Broad shoulders strained against a perfectly tailored black jacket. His dark hair was slightly wavy, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his face possessed the kind of severe symmetry that made you forget what you were supposed to say.
He stopped.
His eyes found mine.
Something happened to his expression.
It wasn't hostility.
It wasn't curiosity.
He braced.
That was the only word for it.
His shoulders remained still, but something behind his eyes closed.
As if he'd already seen this scene before.
A woman arrives.
A woman sees him.
A woman changes her mind.
I took one step forward.
My suitcase wheel caught the rug.
Again.
"Oh—"
My balance disappeared.
I reached for the nearest solid object.
Unfortunately, the nearest solid object was Luca Moretti.
Both my hands grabbed his shirt.
For one humiliating second, I hung there with two fistfuls of black fabric, pulling a six-foot-six Mafia boss half an inch toward me.
His hand closed around my elbow.
Not painfully.
Carefully.
He lifted me upright as though I weighed nothing.
Silence filled the foyer.
I looked at my hands.
Then at his shirt.
Then at him.
"Sorry."
Nobody moved.
"I fall down a lot."
Still nothing.
"I realize that's probably information you would've preferred before agreeing to marry me."
Behind me, someone made a sound suspiciously close to a cough hiding a laugh.
Luca stared down at me.
His eyes were dark, unreadable.
Then he said quietly, "You're not going to comment on it."
"On the suitcase?"
His brow furrowed.
"It's a nice suitcase," I continued. "I'd hate to insult it."
"On me."
I finally understood.
I looked up at him.
"Should I?"
Something shifted in his face.
Not relief.
Not yet.
More like confusion.
"I was told you'd take one look at me and ask to go home."
"Who told you that?"
"Experience."
One word.
But there was an entire history inside it.
I released his shirt and attempted to smooth the wrinkles I'd created.
That only made things worse.
"Well," I said, "experience also told me I could carry three wedding cakes down a staircase by myself."
"And?"
"I destroyed a twelve-hundred-dollar cake and broke a lamp."
The corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
But I saw it.
"Luca Moretti."
He offered me his hand.
There was something strange about the gesture.
Tentative.
A man like Luca probably shook hands with politicians, businessmen, judges, men who feared him.
Yet he offered his hand to me like he expected me to refuse it.
I took it.
His hand swallowed mine.
"Sophia Bennett. Wedding-cake baker. Professional suitcase victim."
His mouth moved again.
Definitely a smile this time.
Tiny.
But real.
A man near the door cleared his throat.
"Signor Moretti."
Luca glanced over.
"The priest is asking whether the ceremony is still tonight."
My stomach dropped.
Tonight.
Of course I knew that.
I'd known for weeks.
But suddenly there was a difference between knowing you were supposed to marry a stranger and standing three feet away from him.
Luca looked back at me.
And there it was again.
That expectation.
Rejection.
He was waiting for it.
I opened my mouth.
Elena moved first.
"Sophia."
She took my arm.
"May I speak with you?"
Luca's expression hardened slightly.
"Elena."
"Five minutes."
"About what?"
"Women's things."
I blinked.
Luca looked unconvinced.
Elena pulled me toward the staircase.
We hadn't reached the first step when she leaned closer.
"Before you say yes," she whispered, "there's something about this marriage you need to know."
I stopped.
"What?"
"Not here."
She led me upstairs.
I looked back.
Luca remained exactly where we'd left him.
Watching me.
The strange thing was that he didn't look angry.
He looked resigned.
As though he had already decided I wasn't coming back.
Elena brought me into a bedroom overlooking the lake and closed the door.
"Your brother thinks I'm going to leave."
"He thinks everyone leaves."
"Why?"
Elena stared through the window.
"You're not the first woman who was supposed to marry Luca."
"I know."
Her head snapped toward me.
"You do?"
"Five."
"Who told you?"
"He did. Sort of."
Elena laughed without humor.
"Then he didn't tell you everything."
My stomach tightened.
"What happened?"
"Every one of them rejected him."
"Because he's tall?"
"Because they were made to believe they should."
I stared at her.
"What does that mean?"
Elena crossed the room and opened a drawer.
From inside, she removed an envelope.
"I found this two weeks ago."
She handed it to me.
There was no name on the front.
Inside were photographs.
Five women.
Each standing beside Luca.
Different places.
Different years.
In every photograph, Luca looked younger.
And in every photograph, he stood slightly apart.
As though he'd learned early not to get too close.
"These were the women?"
Elena nodded.
I flipped to the final photograph.
Something was written on the back.
A number.
$250,000.
"What is this?"
"That's what the fifth woman received three days before she broke the engagement."
My fingers went still.
"Received from whom?"
"That's the problem."
Elena pulled another document from the envelope.
A bank record.
The sender's name had been hidden behind a numbered company.
But Elena had written something beneath it.
Bennett Holdings.
My father's company.
I stared at her.
"No."
"I checked twice."
"My father paid someone to reject your brother?"
"I don't know."
"Then what are you saying?"
"I'm saying money connected to your family appeared in the account of the last woman who humiliated Luca."
I felt suddenly cold.
"Does Luca know?"
"No."
"Why haven't you told him?"
"Because there's more."
She took the photograph back.
"The previous four women received money too."
I swallowed.
"From my father?"
"No."
"Then who?"
"We don't know."
A knock sounded.
Elena immediately gathered the documents.
"Five minutes," Luca called from outside.
Elena looked at me.
Then whispered the sentence that changed everything.
"Sophia, I don't think this marriage was arranged to settle your father's debt."
My heart hammered.
"What do you think it was arranged for?"
Elena slid the envelope back into the drawer.
"I think somebody wanted you inside this family."
The door handle moved.
May you like
"And I think your father knows why."
---
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