DELUCA

FIVE

Eleanor woke up the next morning, the early sunlight spilling through the windows of the vast room.

For a moment, she wondered if Francesco had even been there the night before. The bed beside her was untouched, and the house felt eerily quiet. She sighed, trying to suppress the pang of disappointment that lingered. There was no trace of him—not even the faint smell of his cologne that usually lingered in the air. She slipped out of bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and padded downstairs, hoping to at least hear some signs of life.

But the house was empty.

A note sat on the kitchen counter, short and impersonal, explaining his absence. She didn't bother to read it twice. It was just another reminder of how distant he was, how even though they shared a roof, he was always somewhere else.

Eleanor crumpled the note, tossed it in the trash, and set about making herself a cup of coffee.

The silence of the villa was unnerving, each of her footsteps echoing through the expansive halls. Yet somehow, it didn't feel as foreign as it had the first time she stepped inside.

She had started to imagine herself here, waking up in this house, navigating its winding corridors and oversized rooms.

This villa—Giuseppe always corrected her when she called it a castle—was slowly becoming familiar. She sipped her coffee and stared out of the large window that overlooked the gardens.

The peacefulness was deceptive, like a calm before a storm. Family members were arriving soon, and the house would fill with chaos again.

For now, she embraced the solitude, letting her mind wander back to Francesco.

There was something about him, something elusive. She couldn't quite figure him out.

In their private moments, he'd open up just enough for her to glimpse the man beneath the polished, reserved exterior. But it was never for long.

It was like he kept himself locked away, only letting her in briefly, then shutting her out again. Around others, he was distant, his brow perpetually furrowed, as though the weight of something unseen pressed heavily on his shoulders.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door creaking open. Eleanor turned, expecting to see a familiar face, but instead, a stranger stood in the doorway.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and exuded an aura of raw masculinity that was hard to ignore. His muscles strained against the fabric of his white t-shirt, and tattoos snaked down both arms. A long scar ran from his hairline to his jaw, giving him an intimidating appearance.

"Great! Someone's here to make me a drink," he said, flashing her a cocky smile as he strolled into the foyer, a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Eleanor blinked, caught off guard by the stranger's audacity. "E-excuse me?" she stammered, still trying to figure out who this man was.

He closed the distance between them in a few long strides, extending his hand. "Enzo Vidal. Best man," he introduced himself, his grin widening as if he found her confusion amusing.

Eleanor hesitated before shaking his hand. It was rough, calloused—this was a man who had clearly seen his fair share of tough situations. "No one told me you were coming," she said, retracting her hand and crossing her arms over her chest.

Enzo walked past her, dropping his duffel bag on the kitchen counter. "I didn't tell anyone I was coming," he said, sitting down on one of the stools with a relaxed air. "Now, about that drink?"

"It's nine in the morning," Eleanor replied, arching an eyebrow at him.

"And it's three in the morning in New York, where I should be drinking by now," he shot back, his grin never faltering.

Eleanor found herself smirking despite his brash demeanor. There was something oddly familiar about him, the kind of personality that put her at ease. She moved to the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle. "Lucky for you, this is my favorite too," she said, pouring two drinks.

Enzo downed his glass immediately, slamming it on the counter with a satisfied grunt. "Who would've thought Giuseppe could pick a decent woman," he said, watching her pour another.

Eleanor couldn't help but laugh. "So you know this is all a sham?"

Enzo shrugged, leaning back in his stool. "I know everything." He glanced at the fridge. "By the way, I'm starving."

"There's food in the fridge," Eleanor replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Despite herself, she found his boldness entertaining.

Enzo chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed in the quiet kitchen. "It's good to finally have another American around here."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "You're from New York?"

He nodded. "Yeah, you ever been?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I've never left the West Coast... until now, at least."

"The West Coast must suck if you moved across the world to get away from it," he teased.

Eleanor bristled at the jab. "No, it doesn't. I liked my home."

"Liked it so much you left it behind?" Enzo countered, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

Eleanor glared at him. "I don't think I like you very much," she retorted, but there was no malice behind her words.

Enzo chuckled again, his broad shoulders shaking. "Most people don't."

As they bantered, Enzo's curiosity about her decision to marry Francesco became apparent. "So, what's your angle?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious. "Why are you really here? Is it for the money? The adventure? Running from something?"

Eleanor hesitated, feeling her walls rise instinctively. "I'm not running from anything," she said, though her tone betrayed a hint of defensiveness.

Enzo's eyes narrowed as he studied her. "I call bullshit."

She sighed, deciding to give him a sliver of truth. "It's for my parents. They've worked their whole lives with nothing to show for it. When Giuseppe offered... it wasn't an easy decision, but it made sense."

Enzo stared at her for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Loyalty. I respect that." He drained his glass and set it down. "You'll fit in well around here, Eleanor. Just don't lose yourself in the process."

His words hung in the air as Eleanor absorbed them, unsure whether they were a warning or a compliment.

Either way, she realized Enzo was someone to keep close—a rare ally in a world where everyone else seemed to have their own agenda.

Before she could respond, Enzo stood, grabbing his duffel bag. "I need sleep," he muttered, stumbling off toward the guest rooms. Eleanor watched him go, bemused by the odd encounter.

The house was quiet again, but the emptiness felt different this time.

Eleanor sipped the last of her drink, letting the warmth of the alcohol settle in her bones as she looked around the villa. She couldn't help but wonder how long she could keep pretending, playing the part of the dutiful fiancée in a life that wasn't truly hers.

For now, she had to.

From the moment Giselle's large brown eyes fluttered open that morning, Francesco knew it would be a whirlwind of a day. She had always been a social butterfly, and it came as no surprise when she declared her plans to go out that evening.

What he hadn't anticipated, though, was that she intended to bring Eleanor along.

As the evening rolled in, Francesco felt relief knowing his childhood friend Enzo was in town.

A night out with him, away from the suffocating villa and the looming responsibilities of the upcoming wedding, sounded like the perfect escape.

He and Enzo sat in a dimly lit, upscale bar, the music playing just loud enough to drown out any coherent thoughts. Francesco had been looking forward to a few hours of peace.

But that peace shattered the moment Giselle strolled in. Francesco's eyes instantly locked onto her—only to darken when he noticed who followed closely behind.

Eleanor.

She stood awkwardly in the doorway as Giselle spoke with the doorman, clearly out of her element in the buzzing nightlife. His eyes narrowed when he took in her outfit—a shimmering, sequin top that clung to her form and a pair of tight pants that flared at the bottom.

The look made her seem taller than she was, though he remembered all too well she was a full foot shorter than him.

Eleanor's usual tidy updo was gone, her dark hair cascading down her back in loose waves. Francesco couldn't deny that she looked stunning, but a sense of possessiveness stirred in him.

He was certain she hadn't brought that outfit from home. He silently cursed Giselle for playing dress-up with her.

Next to him, Enzo, still nursing a brutal hangover, barely noticed anything. His head remained cradled in his hands, but Francesco wasn't paying attention to him anymore. His focus was entirely on Eleanor.

She had no idea he was watching, which gave him an odd advantage. He watched her laugh nervously as Giselle chattered away with the bartender, completely unaware of the hungry gazes from other men that lingered on her.

Eleanor was alluring in a way that unnerved him. It wasn't just physical—though that certainly played a part—it was the quiet strength she seemed to carry.

Francesco was used to women throwing themselves at him or playing mind games, but Eleanor was different. Her innocence and sincerity made her all the more compelling.

Enzo finally lifted his head when he felt Francesco nudge him. His tired eyes followed Francesco's line of sight until they landed on Eleanor and Giselle at the bar. A slow, knowing smirk spread across Enzo's face.

"You're screwed," Enzo muttered, leaning back in the booth, his arms crossed. "Go ahead, tough guy. You can't keep staring."

Francesco shot him a glare but didn't deny it. Enzo was right—he needed to intervene before some i***t thought they had a chance. Sliding out of the booth, Francesco strode across the room.

He weaved between tables with ease, his eyes locked on the man who had approached Eleanor and Giselle at the bar. He clenched his jaw.

The man had positioned himself directly between them, his body language dripping with the kind of arrogance that grated on Francesco's nerves.

He watched as the man focused entirely on Eleanor, ignoring Giselle's attempt at small talk. Francesco could see the man sizing her up, his hand gesturing too freely as he tried to charm her.

Francesco's pace quickened. By the time he reached them, the man noticed him and froze. Francesco positioned himself directly behind Eleanor, his towering frame casting a shadow over them. The stranger's gaze flickered nervously between Francesco and Eleanor, not quite understanding the situation.

"Ciao," Francesco greeted coldly, his voice low and clipped.

The man hesitated, clearly out of his depth. "Uh, do you know this guy?" he asked Eleanor, his confidence wavering.

Giselle rolled her eyes and answered for her, "It's her fiancé."

The words hung heavy in the air, and the man's face flushed with embarrassment. "Oh... uh, my bad, dude," he mumbled, stepping back hastily.

Giselle, ever the charmer, seized the opportunity and asked him for a dance. She led him away, leaving Eleanor alone with Francesco.

Eleanor hadn't turned around yet, but she knew it was him. She felt his presence like an electric charge in the air. Francesco slid onto the stool Giselle had vacated, taking a moment to observe Eleanor up close.

Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the bar or maybe from the drink in her hand—he couldn't tell. Either way, it was a rare sight to see her so... free.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, his voice rougher than intended.

Eleanor glanced at her glass, holding it up with a sheepish smile. "It's just water. I've been hungover since noon. I don't know how you guys do it."

Francesco smirked, ordering a drink for himself. "We don't drink with Enzo, that's how. He doesn't know when to stop."

Eleanor laughed, her eyes brightening. "Oh, I've figured that out the hard way." She paused, her tone softening. "How did you sleep?"

Francesco hesitated. He took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn before responding. "I slept well... thanks to you."

Eleanor looked confused, so he clarified, "The way you curled up next to me. It was... nice."

Her eyes widened, a blush creeping up her neck. She hadn't realized she'd crossed the barrier between them during the night. "I didn't mean to—" she started, but Francesco cut her off.

"I'm not complaining," he said quickly, his hand resting lightly on her thigh. It was meant to reassure her, but it sent a jolt through him. Her skin was warm beneath his palm, and for a moment, he forgot they were in a crowded bar.

Eleanor's eyes darted to his lips, and for a split second, Francesco considered closing the distance between them. But just as the thought crossed his mind, reality came crashing back.

"Francesco?"

The voice was familiar, grating in its familiarity. He stiffened, his hand slipping away from Eleanor as he turned toward the sound. A tall, lithe figure stepped into view, her red lips curled into a smile that sent a shiver of dread down Francesco's spine.

"Jemma."

The name left his lips like a curse.