DELUCA

The first thing Francesco noticed was the warmth of sunlight spilling through the sheer cream curtains that framed the floor-to-ceiling windows in his bedroom. The delicate panels danced gently in the breeze, which carried the scent of the sea from the villa's surrounding hills. He lay still for a moment, savoring the fleeting sense of peace. These few seconds of clarity before the chaos of the day began were precious to him. His life was anything but tranquil. Stretching across the vast California king bed, Francesco felt the familiar emptiness of waking up alone, a loneliness he had long since accepted, if not embraced. Few women ever saw the inside of his bedroom. Francesco was selective, private, and even when there was company, no one ever stayed. There was a sense of control in this—his bed, his space, his world, uninterrupted. He reached for his phone on the bedside table, his fingers brushing against the cool metal as the screen lit up. Missed calls. All from one person. Giuseppe Deluca, his elder brother. Giuseppe was relentless—a hovering presence in Francesco's life, four years older but infinitely more traditional. His calls were frequent, his opinions unsolicited. Lately, his obsession was clear: marriage. Giuseppe, like the rest of their family, expected Francesco to follow the old ways, to marry young and secure his legacy. Francesco had taken over the family business three years ago, and the marriage talk had begun not long after. But Francesco had never had the time or the desire to court anyone. His life was all business. The idea of arranging a wedding seemed foreign, almost absurd, but Giuseppe pressed on as if it were inevitable. Sighing, Francesco hit the redial button. As the phone rang, he swung his legs out of bed and padded across the cool marble floor to the en-suite bathroom. "Ciao, you're finally awake!" Giuseppe's voice boomed from the phone, a jarring contrast to the peaceful morning Francesco had been enjoying. "It's seven in the morning," Francesco muttered, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. His tall, muscular frame loomed over the sink. The stubble along his jaw added to the rugged appearance, while his white tank top contrasted sharply against his olive skin. "Early bird catches the worm," Giuseppe replied. "But listen, what are you doing tomorrow at seven?" Francesco brushed his teeth, holding the phone on speaker as he half-listened to Giuseppe's latest scheme. His brother was in the States but would return the next day. "I'm bringing you a guest," Giuseppe announced. Francesco's stomach tightened. The guest. He had almost forgotten. As much as Francesco had distanced himself from the old-world traditions of his family, there were some things he couldn't escape. An arranged marriage was one of them. Despite his reluctance, he knew the consequences of defying this particular expectation. He had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to lose everything now. But the thought of sharing his life with someone—someone paid to play the role of his wife—filled him with a hollow sense of shame. Love wasn't supposed to be transactional, yet here he was. "How much did you pay her?" he asked, forcing himself to ask the question he dreaded. Giuseppe's answer was cryptic. "The amount is inconsequential." Francesco ended the call with a terse, "I'll be ready." He wasn't ready, not really, but there was no turning back now. Dressed in grey trousers and a deep purple shirt, Francesco left his bedroom and descended the wide staircase to the kitchen. Louis and Henri, his two closest men, sat at the counter, as usual. They were more than just bodyguards—they handled everything for Francesco, from security to logistics. If something needed to be done, they did it. No questions asked. "Ciao fratelli," Francesco greeted them quietly. Louis, tall and imposing with a sharp, weathered face, handed him a smoothie. "Got your favorite from the deli," he said. Louis had been with the Deluca family for decades, first serving Francesco's father and now him. There was a bond between them, one forged in loyalty and necessity. "Grazie." Francesco sipped the smoothie, its familiar taste bringing a small comfort. "You meet your new wife today," Louis remarked. "How are you feeling about that?" Francesco shrugged. "I had forgotten," he lied. Of course, he hadn't forgotten. It was impossible to forget something that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, even when he tried to push it away. "You'll have a house filled with a woman and babies soon enough," Louis teased, switching between languages as he often did. It was his way of connecting with Francesco, a blend of French, Italian, and English that had become their private shorthand. Francesco said nothing, his mind already drifting to the more pressing issue at hand. Paulo. The informant. Francesco didn't like killing. He had tried to avoid it whenever possible, but in his line of work, it was sometimes necessary. There was no room for weakness, no room for mistakes. If he didn't handle Paulo, others would see it as a sign. A sign that he was soft. That he could be challenged. He had no choice. "Paulo will be here tonight, untouched as requested," Louis said, breaking Francesco's train of thought. "Sergio finally agreed to meet." Francesco nodded. Sergio was a problem, but not an insurmountable one. He had dealt with worse. The meeting would happen, and by the end of the night, the issue would be resolved. "Great," Francesco replied, a grim smile tugging at his lips. "I was looking for a reason to drink." Henri, the quieter of the two men, smiled for the first time that morning. He, too, enjoyed a good drink, especially after a successful job. As Francesco left the villa and slid into the sleek, low-slung Porsche parked in the driveway, his thoughts returned to the woman he would meet that night. Soon, his life would no longer be his alone. Soon, he would be bound to someone else, even if it was just a façade. And in the silence of the car, as the engine roared to life and he sped down the coastline, Francesco wondered—was it better to be alone? Or was it better to pretend? ~*~ Eleanor's eyes widened as she took in the room before her. The opulence of the space, the men who filled it, the tension in the air—all of it hit her like a tidal wave. Her breath hitched in her throat, and for a moment, she felt frozen, unsure of what to do next. Her heart pounded in her chest, drowning out the low murmurs and the aftermath of what looked like a brawl between two men. Giuseppe, ever the flamboyant presence, stepped forward, breaking the ice with a quick laugh. "Well, Francesco, this wasn't exactly the warm welcome I was hoping for." His voice was light, but there was an edge of tension beneath his words. Francesco turned slowly from the scene of violence he had just commanded, his dark eyes meeting Eleanor's. For a brief moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. The confident, cold demeanor that had been painted in her mind crumbled just a bit as she saw the flicker of surprise in his gaze. He wasn't expecting her. Not like this. Eleanor knew she wasn't what he thought she would be—what his friend Andreas had cruelly described just moments ago. And though she had prepared herself for rejection, it still stung more than she'd anticipated. But it was Enzo who spoke first, breaking the silence. "Ah, Giuseppe. You've outdone yourself. This is... unexpected." He smiled broadly at Eleanor, his voice carrying a note of genuine approval. "Welcome. Please, make yourself comfortable." Francesco's gaze shifted to Enzo before snapping back to Eleanor, and his expression hardened once more. "So this is it?" His tone was measured, but the undercurrent of uncertainty couldn't be missed. Eleanor forced a polite smile, feeling Giuseppe's reassuring hand at the small of her back. "Francesco," Giuseppe said with a grand gesture, "this is Eleanor. The woman who's agreed to marry you, despite your... charming reputation." His voice was playful, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that warned Francesco not to push his luck. Francesco's jaw clenched briefly before he straightened his suit jacket and crossed the room, offering Eleanor a stiff nod. "Eleanor, welcome," he said, his voice polite but distant. His gaze swept over her quickly, as though he were assessing her, trying to fit her into a predetermined mold. Eleanor swallowed, her anxiety spiking again. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head, but standing before the man who was to become her husband, she realized no amount of practice could have prepared her for the reality of it. She wasn't just marrying a man—she was stepping into an entirely different world. A world filled with power, wealth, and a coldness that felt impenetrable. "I appreciate the welcome," she said softly, her voice steadier than she expected. "I know this arrangement is... unconventional." "Unconventional is putting it mildly," Francesco replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. "But then, that's the life we lead, isn't it?" Before the tension could rise further, Enzo clapped his hands together, his grin widening as he stepped between them. "Well then! Enough of the brooding introductions. Eleanor, how about a drink? Something to ease the nerves, huh? We were just in the middle of a game." He winked at her, and though his gesture was meant to be friendly, Eleanor couldn't shake the feeling that she was a piece being moved around on a chessboard. Giuseppe stepped in as well, his usual bright demeanor returning as he attempted to lighten the mood. "Yes, yes! Let's all take a breather. Francesco, Eleanor has come a long way—let's not scare her off on the first night." Francesco gave a short nod, stepping back slightly. "Of course. We'll speak more later, Eleanor. For now, enjoy yourself." As the men returned to their places, Eleanor couldn't help but feel like she had just passed some sort of test. But the unease in her stomach remained, and the thought of what lay ahead loomed large in her mind. This was just the beginning, and already, she could feel the weight of what was expected of her. What would happen when the surface pleasantries gave way to the reality of this arrangement? She glanced at Giuseppe, who gave her a small, reassuring nod. "Don't worry," he whispered as they moved to the side of the room. "Francesco may be a hard man to read, but he's not without his... redeeming qualities." Eleanor wasn't so sure, but she nodded, pretending she believed him.