"BECAUSE OF HIS SIZE, THE MAFIA BOSS WAS REJECTED BY EVERY WOMAN — UNTIL A CLUMSY BAKER AGREED TO BECOME HIS BRIDE

Elena’s hand remained on my upper arm, her manicured nails digging just deep enough to serve as a warning. She didn't look at Luca, but her posture was entirely directed at him—a wall built of old, ingrained family defense mechanisms.

"What is it?" I whispered back, my eyes flicking over her shoulder to where Luca stood. He hadn't moved. A man that size didn't need to pace to look imposing; his absolute stillness was far more intimidating than any physical display of dominance.

"The debt your father owes," Elena murmured, her breath warm against my ear, smelling faintly of espresso and mint. "It isn't money, Sophia. My brother doesn't collect gambling debts with wedding dresses. He accepted you because the syndicate council forced his hand. They believe a man who cannot keep a woman in his home cannot lead four territories."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "So I'm a management credential?"

"You are the sixth attempt to prove he isn't a monster," she replied sharply, stepping back into the light of the grand chandelier before Luca could ask what she was doing. "Signorina Bennett needs to rest before the priest arrives, Luca. She’s covered in dust from the drive."

Luca’s eyes traveled from Elena’s face to mine. He had heard the low murmur of our voices, even if he hadn't caught the specific words, and the dark wall came right back up behind his dark irises.

"The guest suite on the east wing is prepared," Luca said, his voice flat, stripped of the brief warmth that had touched it when I caught his shirt. "If you wish to leave, Sophia, the driver is still at the bottom of the steps. I will settle your father's ledger regardless. I have no interest in holding a prisoner."

He turned on his heel, his broad back blocking out the light from the hallway as he walked toward a heavy oak door at the far end of the corridor. The door closed with a deep, heavy click that resonated through the marble floor beneath my feet.

"He means it, you know," Elena said, her voice softer now, almost weary. "He’ll pay off your father's men tonight. You could take the car right now. You could be back in Boston by Friday."

I looked down at my shoes, covered in gravel dust, then at my hands. They were still trembling slightly—not from fear of Luca Moretti, but from the sudden realization of what kind of cage he had been living in. Every woman brought to this house had seen a mountain of a man and assumed he was built only for violence. No one had stayed long enough to ask why he let them leave so easily.

"Where is the kitchen?" I asked.

Elena blinked, thrown off balance for the first time since I’d stepped through the door. "What?"

"I’ve been on a plane for eleven hours," I said, setting my suitcase upright with a loud snap of the telescopic handle. "I make flour, butter, and sugar do what I want them to do. Right now, I need a measuring cup and a warm oven, or I’m going to spend the whole night overthinking things I can't control."