Chapter 2 - The Gold Envelope
By three o'clock that afternoon, Chloe had abandoned all attempts at doing actual housework.
Every time she picked up a dust cloth or tried to clear a tray from the salon, Mr. Hart or one of the three armed footmen posted in the hallway would gently take it out of her hands with an apologetic bow.
"You are the mistress of the house now, Mrs. Costa," the footman named Marco had told her solemnly while taking a vacuum cleaner from her grip. "If Don Luciano sees you cleaning the floor, he will have us reassigned to the dock security detail in mid-November."
Feeling entirely useless and uncomfortably rich, Chloe retreated to the estate's private library—a vast, two-story room lined with leather-bound books, floor-to-ceiling oak shelves, and a massive stone fireplace.
She curled up in a oversized leather armchair, pulling her knees up to her chest, holding a cup of tea.
She was still trying to process the absolute absurdity of her reality. Eight months ago, she was working two jobs—one at a downtown diner and another cleaning offices—trying to pay off her late grandmother's medical debts. When a high-end agency placed her at the Costa estate, she thought she had hit the lottery. The pay was incredible, the house was clean, and the mysterious, dangerous owner was rarely around.
When Luciano was around, he was quiet, brooding, and terrifyingly handsome. She had spent months stealing glances at his strong jawline, his broad shoulders, and the way his tailored suits hugged his muscular frame. She had assumed he barely knew her name.
And then, twenty-four hours ago, he had stood up in front of twenty men holding machine guns and called her his wife.
The double doors of the library opened, cutting off her thoughts.
Luciano walked in, shedding his jacket and tossing it over the back of a sofa. He looked tired. The dark circles beneath his eyes suggested he hadn't slept a single minute of the previous night.
He stopped when he saw her curled up in the massive chair, looking small and soft among the dark leather.
"You're not sleeping," he observed, leaning against the edge of his desk.
"Hard to sleep when every time I close my eyes, I hear guns clicking," Chloe said dryly. She took a sip of tea. "Are we still married?"
"According to the Italian-American Press, the local unions, and three archbishops who called my cell phone today—yes. We are profoundly, hopelessly married." Luciano rubbed the back of his neck. "I spent the last six hours convincing our union leaders that our 'sudden wedding' was a private decision made out of deep, overwhelming passion, rather than a political strategy."
Chloe choked on her tea. "Deep, overwhelming passion?"
Luciano looked at her, his hazel eyes darkening slightly. "They needed a reason why a man like me didn't announce a formal engagement. A secret, passionate love affair with a woman I couldn't bear to keep at a distance was the only explanation that satisfied them."
Chloe’s heart did a strange, erratic flutter against her ribs. She looked down at her tea cup, feeling her face burn. "You're a really good liar, Mr. Costa."
"Luciano," he corrected quietly.
"What?"
"If we are wildly in love, calling me 'Mr. Costa' in front of the staff makes us look absurd. Call me Luciano."
He walked over to the armchair, stopping right beside her. He reached down, his warm, rough fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His touch was brief, but it sent a shockwave of heat straight down Chloe’s spine.
"I am sorry about your wrist," he said softly, his eyes dropping to the faint reddish mark left by Don Bellini’s grip from yesterday.
Chloe swallowed hard. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
"It shouldn't have happened at all," Luciano murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark register. "Bellini will be paying for that touch for the rest of his short life."
Before Chloe could ask what that meant, the heavy library doors burst open.
Luciano’s chief of security, a scarred, muscular man named Rocco, stood in the threshold, looking unnaturally pale.
"Don Luciano," Rocco said quickly, stepping into the room. "We have a situation at the main gate."
Luciano’s posture instantly shifted. The warm, human moment vanished, replaced by the icy demeanor of a syndicate boss. "What is it?"
"It’s Celeste Romano," Rocco reported. "She drove through the lower gates without stopping. Our guards tried to block her at the driveway, but she brought three Romano security vehicles with her. She isn't armed, boss... but she demands an immediate audience with you and... Mrs. Costa."
Luciano’s jaw hardened. "Send her away. Tell her I am not taking appointments today."
"I am afraid that won't be necessary, Luciano," a sharp, feminine voice echoed from the hallway.
Celeste Romano stepped into the library, pushing past Rocco. She looked breathtaking and lethal in her emerald dress, her diamond earrings catching the light of the chandelier. Behind her, two armed Romano guards stood near the doorway, though Rocco’s men instantly drew their weapons, pointing them at the intruders.
Celeste ignored the guns completely. Her dark, cold eyes swept over the library, passing Luciano, before locking onto Chloe with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.
"So," Celeste purred, stepping further into the room. "This is the famous 'Mrs. Costa.' The woman who conquered the heart of the most ruthless man on the East Coast."
Chloe sat up straight, refusing to cower, though her heart was hammering against her chest like a trapped bird.
Luciano stepped directly between Celeste and Chloe, his towering frame completely blocking Celeste’s view of her.
"You are trespassing, Celeste," Luciano said, his voice flat and deadly. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't have Rocco throw you and your men into the harbor."
Celeste didn't flinch. Instead, she raised her right hand, revealing a heavy yellowed leather binder tied with a frayed crimson ribbon.
"I came to deliver a wedding gift, Luciano," Celeste said, her voice dripping with venomous triumph. "Or rather... a reality check."
She tossed the binder onto Luciano's desk. It landed with a dull, heavy thud.
"What is that?" Luciano asked, not looking at the desk.
"That," Celeste declared, turning her cold smile toward Chloe, "is the official church and civil registry from the town of Castelmola, Sicily, dated seven years ago."
Chloe blinked, looking from Celeste to the back of Luciano’s broad shoulders.
"You see," Celeste continued, taking a slow step toward them, "everyone in this city thinks you played a brilliant game yesterday, Luciano. They think you invented a fake wife out of thin air to save your skin and humiliate Don Bellini. But I knew you were lying. I knew you would never marry a peasant like her."
Celeste pointed a long, manicured red nail at Chloe.
"So I searched the old records," Celeste laughed—a bitter, sharp sound. "And I found out that your 'fake marriage' is a total farce. Because seven years ago, in a tiny private chapel in Italy, you signed a binding matrimonial agreement with the daughter of the late Don Lorenzo!"
Silence fell over the library—a silence so heavy that even the crackle of the fireplace seemed to stop.
Chloe’s breath hitched. She looked at Luciano's back. He hadn't moved. He hadn't denied it.
"You are already legally, religiously, and irrevocably married to another woman, Luciano," Celeste declared triumphantly, her eyes flashing with victory. "You cannot marry this housekeeper. Your marriage to her is a fraud, an insult to the Commission, and a crime under our law! Your fake wife is nothing!"
Celeste folded her arms, waiting for Luciano to collapse, waiting for Chloe to burst into tears and run out of the room.
Slowly, Luciano turned around.
He didn't look panicked. He didn't look angry.
He walked over to the desk, picked up the yellowed binder, and opened it. He flipped through the aged pages, his hazel eyes scanning the Latin script, the official seals of the Sicilian archdiocese, and the bold, dark signatures at the bottom of the last page.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Luciano Costa’s face.
He looked up from the binder, staring straight at Celeste Romano.
"You really should have read the full document before bringing it to my house, Celeste," Luciano said softly.
Celeste’s triumphant smile faltered. "What... what are you talking about? I read the signatures! I read the date!"
Luciano picked up the document, turned it around, and pointed his thumb at the small, faded photograph attached to the bottom right corner of the Sicilian registry—a photograph of a sixteen-year-old girl with dark curly hair, wide hazel eyes, and a soft, unmistakable smile.
"The late Don Lorenzo was my uncle," Luciano explained, his voice echoing clearly through the massive room. "Seven years ago, when his family was hunted by rival clans, he placed his youngest daughter into protective custody under an assumed name. To guarantee her safety and her inheritance under Sicilian law, he arranged a proxy marriage between her and his chosen heir."
Luciano walked over to Chloe, reached down, took her hand, and pulled her gently to her feet.
He looked down into Chloe’s stunned, pale face, his hazel eyes burning with an emotion so intense it made her breath stop completely.
"My uncle sent her to America," Luciano whispered, his voice vibrating with raw truth. "He changed her name to Chloe Mercer. He erased her past to keep her alive until I was strong enough to claim the seat."
Chloe stared at him, her mouth opening, but no sound coming out.
May you like
Luciano turned back to Celeste, whose face had gone so pale she looked like a ghost standing in the middle of the room.
"My marriage to Chloe isn't a lie, Celeste," Luciano said softly, his grip on Chloe’s hand tightening into an unbreakable hold. "It never was. She was my wife long before she ever walked into this house with a broom."
