Chapter 1
The first rule of the De Luca house was simple: never wander alone.
I learned that the night I got lost in the marble halls, my shoes silent against the cold floor, my heart beating so loudly I was sure someone would hear it. The mansion was alive in the dark—breathing, watching. Men with guns stood like statues in the corners, their eyes sharp and empty.
And then there was him.
Leone De Luca stood at the end of the corridor, shadows clinging to his frame like they were afraid to leave. He wasn’t smiling. He never did. His black suit was immaculate, his hands calm—too calm for someone who carried violence as easily as breath.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his voice low and controlled.
I swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
His gaze lifted to mine, and everything stopped.
People said Leone De Luca was heartless. That he didn’t feel. That he didn’t hesitate. But the way his eyes darkened when they met mine told a different story—one that scared me far more than the rumors ever had.
“You’re under my protection now,” he continued, stepping closer. “That means no one touches you.”
His hand brushed my wrist—not gentle, not cruel. Claiming.
“And it also means,” he added quietly, “you don’t leave.”
I should have been afraid.
But standing there, trapped between marble walls and a boy made of shadows, I realized the truth:
The most dangerous thing about Leone De Luca wasn’t the blood on his hands.
It was the way he looked at me like I already belonged to him.
