DELUCA

SEVEN

Eleanor blinked, struggling to remember how she ended up in such a picturesque setting. The glittering water in front of her felt like a dream—so dazzling it almost hurt her eyes.

She squinted, shielding herself from the sun's reflection, and turned, startled to find Francesco behind her.

He stood shirtless, wearing only white linen pants. The sight of him—tall, sculpted, tattoos snaking down his arms—was mesmerizing.

Her eyes followed the dark trail of hair leading down his abdomen, her thoughts wandering to places she wasn't sure she was ready to explore.

Francesco stepped closer, his presence intoxicating. His tattooed hand reached out and pulled her against him, his lips finding hers with an intensity that made her knees weak.

The world seemed to tilt as his other hand slid around her waist, pressing her tightly against him. She could feel every inch of his desire, the air between them thick with an unspoken promise.

And then, just as abruptly, he released her, stepping back and setting down a glass on the nearby table. The water behind them was unnaturally still, as if even nature held its breath in the moment between them.

Eleanor's breath hitched as her eyes dropped to his hands—Francesco was unfastening the belt at his waist, the fabric slipping inch by inch until—

"Eleanor!" Giselle's sharp voice broke through the haze, snapping Eleanor back to the present.

She was no longer on the edge of the sparkling water, but seated in front of a mirror, her hair half-done, and Giselle's fingers tugging through her locks with impatience.

"You were daydreaming again, weren't you?" Giselle clicked her tongue, clearly exasperated.

Eleanor flushed, shaking off the remnants of the dream. How ridiculous—she could barely remember the details, yet her body still hummed from it.

She wasn't even sure where it had come from. Francesco, her supposed fiancé, was more a practical arrangement than the stuff of wild fantasies.

"She's probably just nervous about the wedding," Isobel chimed in from the corner, her voice sugary sweet. "Though I can't imagine why. Francesco is a catch any woman would die for."

"Right," Eleanor muttered, offering a tight smile.

The truth was, the wedding felt surreal. The bachelorette party had been hastily thrown together, and the women in the room—Giselle, Isobel, and the twins, Josefina and Clara—weren't her friends. They were strangers, bound to her only through the name DeLuca, a name she was soon to take but never wanted.

The twins, tall and glamorous in their sky-high heels and matching high ponytails, were laughing at some inside joke, completely engrossed in themselves. Josefina caught Eleanor's eye and winked.

"Trust me," she said with a smirk. "The Deluca men may be loyal, but with a body like yours, Francesco won't have eyes for anyone else."

Eleanor shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The dress Giselle had chosen for her was tight—too tight—hugging her every curve.

It wasn't her style at all. But who was she to argue? This wasn't about her.

She wasn't here to be herself, just an accessory to Francesco's power.

Her phone buzzed, and Eleanor discreetly glanced down, her heart warming at the name on the screen. Her father.

She had spoken to him that morning, his deep southern drawl comforting her as he shared how thrilled he was that Giuseppe, Francesco's father, had sent workers to help fix up their old house.

"Baby girl, these boys don't mess around! They fixed the floorboards, the air conditioning, and even my transmission!" her father had boasted, his pride evident.

"That's great, Daddy. Just... be careful what you say to them," Eleanor had replied, laughing softly at his unapologetic bluntness. His joy was infectious, though. It was one of the few things keeping her grounded in this whirlwind of a life she barely recognized.

Now, as she sat with Giselle's hands twisting through her hair, Eleanor thought of her family back home—her real life. What would they think if they knew how far removed she felt from herself, from everything?

"I'm going to need a moment," Eleanor suddenly said, standing up before Giselle could protest.

Ignoring the curious looks from the others, she left the room, her heels clicking against the marble floors as she hurried toward the stairs. She almost crashed straight into Enzo, Francesco's brother, as he rounded the corner.

"Whoa, slow down, hellcat," Enzo grinned, catching her by the arm before she could topple backward. "What's got you in such a rush?"

"Just... needed some air," Eleanor replied, trying to muster a smile.

Enzo's playful expression shifted, concern creeping into his dark eyes. "You alright?"

"I'm fine. I just want to be alone for a minute," she insisted.

He nodded, understanding in his gaze. "If you're looking for quiet, the library's your best bet. Nobody ever goes in there. And I mean nobody."

Eleanor nodded her thanks and made her way to the library, pushing open the grand double doors. The room was vast, lined with towering bookshelves and thick with the smell of aged paper and dust. A crackling fire flickered in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room.

It was quiet, peaceful—a stark contrast to the chaos of the rest of the mansion.

But she wasn't alone.

Francesco stood at a desk, his back to her, deeply absorbed in a book. He wore a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and—was he wearing glasses?

Eleanor froze, caught between wanting to sneak away and the sudden curiosity of seeing this softer, more human side of him.

Before she could decide, Francesco glanced up, his sharp gaze locking onto hers. He didn't seem surprised to see her.

"I didn't think anyone would be here," Eleanor said awkwardly. "Enzo said—"

"Enzo said no one reads around here," Francesco interrupted a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "He's right."

She lingered by the door, feeling out of place in her tight dress and styled hair. Yet, seeing Francesco like this—relaxed, reading, with glasses perched on his nose—stirred something unfamiliar inside her.

Francesco stood, removing his glasses, and moved toward her, his gaze shifting from the journal in his hand to her. Without a word, he reached for her left hand, sliding a ring onto her finger.

"For appearances," he said simply. "You should have a ring."

Eleanor looked down at the simple band now resting on her finger, her heart racing as she realized this wasn't just a dream anymore. Whatever was happening between them, it was real.

Andreas sat at the bar, his fingers drumming absently on the polished wood, a sound swallowed by the pulsing music.

He nursed a drink that had long since lost its appeal, the only remnant of a night he had hoped would be swift and uncomplicated.

Clubs were never his scene, but he had his reasons for being here. Tonight, he was simply waiting for one person.

As expected, John was late. John, an American who had made his fortune in Qatar and squandered it on indulgences, was a regular client. Andreas knew all too well about John's dark tastes. His visits to the city always had a common thread—a hunger for pharmaceuticals that went beyond the street-level drugs Andreas's family dealt with.

Andreas's business was more exclusive, dealing in harder-to-obtain substances that fetched a higher profit. It wasn't the quickest way to make money, but it was cleaner.

He couldn't help but think that if his cousin had paid him what he was worth, he wouldn't be stuck in this noisy club.

Through the sea of revelers, Andreas spotted John, pushing his way through the crowd with an air of careless entitlement. His hands were all over the women he passed, his touch unwelcome but ignored.

John finally reached the bar next to Andreas and flagged down the bartender, who greeted him with a look of barely concealed disdain.

John's boisterous orders were loud enough to be heard over the music, and he turned to Andreas with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Andreas! How's my favorite guy?"

Andreas's internal groan was palpable. "I'm fine. Can we get this over with? I want to leave."

John waved him off. "Always in a hurry. Relax and have a drink."

"I'm not interested, John," Andreas said firmly. He tossed a couple of bills onto the counter and stood. "I'll be outside."

The cool night air hit him as he stepped out, a refreshing contrast to the club's heat. Spring was making its presence felt, pushing back against winter's retreat. Andreas lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke and letting his thoughts wander.

If Ana were here, she'd be worried about him. He hoped she was safe and comfortable, that she wasn't burdened by work or the stress of being pregnant. It was the least he could wish for as he dealt with men like John.

John's arrival pulled Andreas from his thoughts. He spotted him emerging from the club, his head swiveling as he searched for Andreas. A sharp whistle drew John's attention, and he made his way over, his steps unsteady.

"There you are! I don't get why you want to meet out here. No one can hear us inside."

"How much?" Andreas cut straight to the point.

John rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet. "How much are you asking?"

"I can do the bottle for three hundred," Andreas said, his tone clipped.

"Three hundred? That's nearly double!" John protested.

"You're asking for something that's not easy to get," Andreas retorted. "Are you going to waste my time or make a deal?"

John folded his arms, a smirk playing on his lips. "I've got a business idea for you."

"I just want the cash and to go home," Andreas said, trying to end the conversation.

"Listen, would you?" John's voice was louder now, drawing some curious glances from passersby. Andreas reluctantly listened.

"I've got connections back in the States who would pay top dollar for this. It's cheaper here than it would be there. Look at this." John pulled out his phone and showed Andreas a picture of a charter jet.

Andreas frowned at the jet's price tag but let John continue. "I sold some shares to get one of these. It makes travel easier—fewer checks. If you get me a duffel bag of your product, I can get it back to the States, sell it, and bring you the cash."

Andreas's skepticism grew. John clearly had no clue about international smuggling, and neither did Andreas, if he was honest. The idea was fraught with risk.

"We could make ten to fifteen grand," John said, looking at Andreas expectantly.

Andreas considered the offer. The thought of securing a better future for Ana was tempting, but the potential consequences were dire. The risk of getting caught, of ending up in prison, was a heavy weight on his mind.

"Bottle or a few?" Andreas said, deliberately avoiding further discussion of John's proposal.

John looked taken aback but sighed and handed over three hundred dollars. Andreas returned the cash with a small baggie containing thirty pills. "Don't use them here," he warned.

John grumbled and walked away, leaving Andreas alone in the cool night air, three hundred dollars richer but weighed down by thoughts of what might come next.

"That man is a stallion that never runs out of fuel. Sometimes, I miss it." Josefina said with a playful eye roll, her laughter punctuating the comment.

Eleanor, Giselle, Isobel, and Josefina sat in the half-circular booth, having retreated from the dance floor after an hour of energetic gyrations.

Eleanor, surprisingly at ease, attributed her enjoyment to the liberal amount of drinks she'd had over the past two hours. The club was a tourist hotspot, alive with a mix of accents and nationalities, and the energy was infectious.

The booth buzzed with a relaxed camaraderie, but Eleanor's attention was drawn to Josefina and Isobel, who were chuckling over something. Giselle's eyes, however, were fixed on them with a hint of disapproval.

"Wait, what?" Eleanor's delayed reaction showed she was caught off-guard.

Josefina's laughter began to die down as she tried to regain composure. "It's nothing to get worked up about. He's just—"

"Generous," Isobel interjected, finishing Josefina's thought with a smirk.

The mention of Francesco's name made Eleanor's stomach churn. She had known that her relationship with Francesco was more about convenience than romance, but hearing about his past lovers stirred a pang of jealousy she wasn't prepared for.

It was clear they had both shared more than just a passing encounter with him.

"Isobel!" Giselle's reprimand came swiftly, her words slipping into rapid Spanish. Isobel winced, casting an apologetic glance at Eleanor.

"Listen," Josefina said, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. "It's really no big deal. We all have histories. What matters is that you have him now."

"And his tongue," Isobel murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she took a sip from her glass.

The comment was like salt in an open wound. Eleanor's patience wore thin. She stood abruptly, muttering an excuse about needing the restroom.

"I'll go with you," Giselle said, rising to follow.

"I'm fine," Eleanor replied curtly.

"It's not safe to go alone," Giselle insisted, concern lining her words.

"Giselle, I'm fine," Eleanor snapped, her irritation giving her a burst of confidence. Seeing Giselle's worried expression, she felt a twinge of guilt but remained resolute as she made her way toward the bar.

Eleanor's mind was already set on drowning her discomfort. The restroom was not her destination; she needed something stronger to erase the memories of her conversation. Her two drinks so far had done little to help.

At the bar, Eleanor flagged down the bartender, who looked relieved to move on from her previous customer. Eleanor ordered her favorite, Tequila on the Rocks, and impatiently awaited her drink.

When the glass was finally placed in front of her, she downed it in one go, signaling the bartender for another before Giselle could catch up.

The bartender, eyeing Eleanor's growing inebriation, asked for her name. "DeLuca," she replied.

"Is that your maiden name?" The question came from a man who had been lingering nearby. He had a thick American accent and a leering gaze that made Eleanor uneasy.

"Yes," Eleanor said, trying to brush off his attention. She turned back to the bar, hoping he would take the hint.

"John Carpenter," he said, extending his hand. Eleanor glanced at his wedding ring and then at her own engagement ring. "He could do better than that if he really cared about you."

"Eleanor," she replied, hoping that by providing her name, he might leave her alone. She was wrong.

"See, that wasn't so bad. Let me buy you a drink," John said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You'd buy a married woman a drink?" Eleanor asked, her tone laced with skepticism.

John flashed his own wedding band. "We all have baggage. Mine's a bit different—my wife passed away a few years ago. I haven't had the heart to take it off."

Eleanor's initial annoyance softened as she looked at him with sympathy. She accepted the drink from the bartender. "I'm sorry to hear that."

John's sadness shifted her perception of him from a potential nuisance to a lonely man. She chided herself for judging him too harshly. He could be someone's father, after all, and perhaps he just needed a kind word.

"And you?" John asked, bringing her back to the present.

"He's alive," Eleanor said.

"Is he here tonight?"

Eleanor hesitated, unsure whether to lie or return to her friends. She was still unsure how to deal with them, and ordering an Uber seemed like a distant option. She didn't even know the address.

"No, I'm with friends. Just getting a drink for myself."

"Well, I'm glad I ran into you, Eleanor." John raised his glass in a toast, and Eleanor clinked her glass against his, taking a more measured sip this time.

"Are you visiting?" Eleanor asked, determined to make small talk until she could escape.

"Yes, I work overseas, but this city is like my playground. I come here monthly—something my wife and I used to do. What about you?"

Eleanor felt a pang of envy. "I live here. My fiancé is a local."

"Wow! America's sending beautiful women like you overseas," John said, his comment oddly flattering but also somewhat intrusive. Eleanor chuckled, trying to mask her discomfort.

John continued on a tangent that reminded Eleanor of the worst aspects of social media. His unfiltered opinions on various topics bordered on offensive, and she found herself tuning out as she struggled to keep her balance.

Her discomfort grew into nausea. Eleanor tried to hide her yawn and fidgeted, her palms becoming clammy. She wasn't sure if John had been talking for minutes or hours, but she knew she needed to leave.

Excusing herself, she made her way through the crowd, feeling like she was being jostled from all sides. Finally, she spotted the hallway leading to the restrooms and stumbled down it.

"Eleanor?" Giselle's voice echoed from behind, but Eleanor was too far gone to respond. Her vision blurred, and her legs gave way, causing her to collapse to the floor. The last thing she heard was Giselle's frantic cry:

"Call my brother!"