Chapter One: The Arrangement
I stood near the long window of the Rossi dining room and watched the rain streak down the glass. Beyond it, Milan glowed and blurred, the city lights distant enough to feel unreal.
My name is Elena de Luca. I'm twenty-six, the only daughter of Alessandro and Sofia de Luca. In six days, I'd become Elena Rossi—the wife of Mateo Rossi, eldest son of one of Italy's most powerful families.
The engagement had been sealed two months ago over whiskey and signed contracts. Territory in exchange for influence, silence in exchange for protection. My father called it strategy. My mother called it security. To me, it was a business alliance. Nothing more.
I wasn’t naïve. I had grown up hearing the name Rossi spoken carefully. I knew the stories—the disappearances, the quiet funerals, the way rival families suddenly found reasons to stay silent. Mateo’s reputation had reached me long before his face did. Cold, efficient, and used to getting exactly what he wanted. People said he never raised his voice because he never needed to. The threat was already there.
At least I understood the rules. I had spent years learning how families like ours worked.
Behind me the dining room was already full. Crystal glasses caught the light above the white tablecloths, while conversations stayed low and careful. My father stood near the head of the table, speaking with Don Vincenzo Rossi, Mateo’s father. My mother sat with her hands folded, the perfect picture of composure. I knew that expression well. My mother wore it whenever she wanted everyone to believe nothing was wrong.
I smoothed the front of my dress. Black. Simple. Modest. I had chosen it carefully.
The door opened.
Mateo walked in twenty-three minutes late.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t apologize. His dark coat was still on, rain clinging to the shoulders. A phone was in his hand, the screen lighting his face as he scrolled. He walked through the room without acknowledging anyone, completely at ease. It was obvious he knew no one would question him.
Conversations quieted. His father watched him with a tight mouth. My father glanced at me once, a silent warning.
Mateo finally looked up. His eyes found me by the window. His eyes moved over me once, briefly, and whatever he saw clearly didn't impress him.
“You’re wearing that?” he said.
No greeting. No explanation for the time. Just those three words.
I turned to face him. “Yes. I am.”
He gave a short, impatient sound and shrugged off his coat, tossing it toward a chair without watching where it landed.
“My mother prefers something softer. Lighter colors. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
A few men nearby shifted. My mother’s smile stayed in place, but her fingers tightened around her glass.
“Maybe I am.”
The words left before I could stop them.
For a moment, no one said anything. Mateo’s gaze returned to me, colder now.
“Careful, Elena.” His voice dropped, meant only for me. “This arrangement benefits both our families. Don’t start acting like you have choices that don’t exist.”
I held his eyes. Up close he was exactly what the rumors promised—sharp features, dark hair still damp from the rain, a mouth that looked like it rarely smiled. Nothing soft. Nothing that suggested he had ever accepted the word no.
“I’m aware of the arrangement. I’m also aware that I’m the one who has to live inside it. A little basic respect wouldn’t kill you.”
For the first time, I caught a hint of surprise in his expression. It disappeared almost immediately.
He stepped closer. Close enough that only I could hear the next words.
“Respect is earned. So far, you’ve given me nothing but attitude and a black dress. Be ready next week. Smile when you’re told to. Speak when you’re spoken to. That’s all that’s required of you.”
He walked past me without waiting for an answer, already pulling his phone out again as he headed to the table. His father stood. Mateo gave him a short nod and sat down as if the room had simply been holding his place.
I stayed by the window a moment longer, fingers pressed to the cold glass.
Dinner began.
I took my seat across from him and two chairs down. Plates arrived. Wine was poured. Conversation resumed in careful tones—business that never quite named itself.
Mateo barely participated. He answered when his father spoke. He ignored almost everyone else. When my mother attempted a polite question about the wedding, he looked at her for a second too long before saying that everything necessary had already been arranged.
At one point he glanced at my plate, then at me.
“You’re not eating.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway. It looks ungrateful.”
I picked up my fork. The food tasted like nothing.
I spent the rest of the meal watching the man I would marry in six days.. Handsome in the way dangerous men often were. Controlled. Present in a way that made the room adjust around him. But there was no warmth. No curiosity about the woman sitting across from him. To him, I wasn't a woman he was about to marry. I was simply another part of the arrangement, already placed exactly where he wanted me.
I thought about the things I had heard. That Mateo never lost his temper in public because losing control was weakness. That he settled disagreements quickly and permanently. That the women linked to him in the past never spoke about it afterward.
I told myself again that I understood the rules.
When the evening finally ended, I rode home in the back of my father’s car. The city slid past in streaks of light. My mother sat beside me in silence. My father was on the phone in the front, speaking in the low tone he used for business.
I stared out the window and let the truth settle.
I did not want to marry Mateo Rossi.
I did not want his coldness or his dismissive voice or the way he looked at me like I was already a finished transaction. I did not want the life that came with his last name—the constant watching, the careful words, the knowledge that love had never been part of the agreement.
But this was how our families worked.
In families like ours, daughters learned early that marriage could strengthen an alliance. Sons inherited the power behind it. Once the papers were signed, wanting something different stopped mattering. You simply learned how to live with what had been chosen for you.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes.
Six days.
In six days I would walk down an aisle and become his wife.
I told myself I was ready.
For a moment, I almost believed it.
