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

Dinner was a silent, tense affair that felt more like an interrogation than a meal.

The council members left at nine, their heavy sedans roaring down the winding driveway toward the lake road. The house fell back into its deep, quiet rhythm, the kind of silence that feels heavy enough to sink a boat.

I sat on the wide stone terrace at the back of the house, looking out over the dark expanse of Lake Como. The water was still as glass, reflecting the cold, distant stars scattered across the Italian sky.

A heavy woolen blanket fell over my shoulders from behind.

"You shouldn't have spoken to Silvano like that," Luca said, stepping up to the stone balustrade beside me. He leaned his forearms against the wall, looking out at the lake. "He’s a dangerous man."

"He’s a rude man," I corrected, pulling the blanket tight around my chest. It smelled like his coat—cedar, rain, and expensive tobacco. "There’s a difference."

"Not in my world," Luca said quietly.

We stood in silence for a few minutes, the cool night breeze lifting the loose strands of hair around my face. Up close, I could see the lines of exhaustion carved into his jaw—the kind of tiredness that doesn't come from lack of sleep, but from years of carrying things that were never meant to be carried alone.

"Why did they leave, Luca?" I asked softly, turning my head to look up at his profile. "The five women. Tell me the truth. Not what Elena thinks, not what Silvano says. Tell me what happened."

Luca’s jaw flexed. He didn't look at me; his eyes remained fixed on the dark water below.

"The first one was eighteen," he said, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost lost to the wind. "Her father brought her here to settle a turf dispute in Turin. When I walked into the room, she dropped her tea glass and started screaming. She thought I was going to beat her."

My heart gave a painful, violent squeeze.

"The second one stayed three days," he continued, his tone flat, empty of emotion, like he was reading an official police report. "She never spoke to me. Every time I entered a room, she backed into a corner. By the fourth morning, she had climbed out of the second-story window using bedsheets. She broke her ankle on the terrace."

He paused, taking a long, slow breath that expanded his massive chest against the dark fabric of his shirt.

"The third was ambitious. She wanted the Moretti name, but she wanted it without the man attached. She tried to poison my drink on our second week. Elena caught her before I took a sip."

"And the fourth? The fifth?" I whispered.

"The fourth ran before she reached the front door," Luca said, finally turning his head to look down at me. "And the fifth... the fifth looked at me the way you look at a stray dog you aren't sure you want to feed. She stayed until her father’s business was secured, then took two million euros and moved to Paris."

He stepped back from the wall, his massive frame towering over me in the pale starlight.

"So you see, Sophia. I am six foot six. I carry three generations of blood debt on my back. And every woman who comes through those gates realizes eventually that no matter how much money is in the vault, the house always smells like gunpowder."

"It smells like almond cake right now," I said softly.

Luca froze.

"I’m not eighteen, Luca," I said, stepping closer to him until the toes of my shoes nearly touched his boots. "I’m twenty-six. I’ve burned three commercial ovens, worked sixteen-hour shifts on my feet, and dealt with loan sharks who tried to take my bakery twice. I don't break ankles jumping out of windows, and I don't poison people who give me butter."

I reached up, my hand hovering in the cool air between us, before I let my fingers rest against the side of his jaw. His skin was rough with dark stubble, warm, and pulsing with a fast, heavy beat beneath my palm.

Luca didn't pull away. He didn't breathe either.