DELUCA

FOUR

Francesco leaned against the bar, tugging at his collar, feeling the weight of the tie strangle him in the humid nightclub air. He was overdressed, a suit amid flashing neon lights and throbbing music, but he knew better than to come unprepared for Paolo Aicardi.

A night off from the chaos at home should've brought relief, but instead, he found himself walking from one storm straight into the eye of another.

His frown deepened as a woman slid up beside him, her hand brushing his shoulder and tracing down to his waistline.

Her perfume clung to the air, cloying, and overwhelming. She pressed herself against him, her cleavage on display, her blue eyes cold and sharp under the nightclub's dim lights.

"You might be a bit overdressed," she teased, her voice sugary, but it barely registered.

"Here for work," Francesco muttered, his fingers tightening around his glass.

The woman chuckled, undeterred. "Work hard, play harder. Isn't that the saying?"

Francesco's patience waned, and on any other night, maybe he'd let her play her game, maybe even enjoy it. But not tonight. He didn't have the energy. "I'm married," he said bluntly. "Not interested."

Her icy blue eyes scanned him, lingering on his bare fingers. "I don't see a ring," she smirked, undaunted.

Before Francesco could respond, a sharp voice cut through the noise behind them. "Rose, find someone else."

Francesco didn't even glance back as Rose pulled away, defeated. His focus shifted to the man who had just arrived—Paolo's right-hand man. He nodded curtly, motioning for Francesco to follow. Relief washed over him as he stood, eager to escape the bar and the prying eyes that seemed to watch his every move.

The deeper they ventured into the club, the louder the music blared, but it wasn't the sound of the bass that unnerved him.

It was the muffled sounds behind closed doors in the narrow hallway they walked through—grunts, moans, and primal noises that made Francesco's skin crawl. He kept his eyes forward, trying to block out the decadence and depravity surrounding him.

They reached a stairwell and ascended to a different world. The contrast was staggering. The floors were polished black marble, cold and immaculate, reflecting the stark lighting from the ceiling.

The air was sharp, sterile, a far cry from the chaotic energy downstairs. At the end of the hall, a large door with a diamond-cut window awaited. His escort stopped short, leaving Francesco to face whatever was behind it.

He pushed open the door and stepped into the den of Paolo Aicardi.

Paolo, seated behind an expansive desk, looked up from his computer, his green eyes glinting with amusement behind thin, wire-rimmed glasses. His hair, streaked with grey, gave him an almost regal air, though Francesco knew better.

The man may have appeared refined, but there was venom in his smile.

"Francesco, my boy," Paolo exclaimed, standing quickly and removing his glasses. He crossed the room in quick strides, pulling Francesco into an overly familiar hug before stepping back to size him up. "You look fantastic!"

Francesco forced a smile, though every nerve in his body screamed to leave. Paolo was shorter by a head and a half, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in presence. His charisma was legendary, the reason why so many followed him. But it was the fear he commanded that truly gave him power.

Unlike Francesco, who preferred a direct approach, Paolo reveled in manipulation, toying with his prey before sinking in his fangs.

"How's the bride?" Paolo asked casually as he moved back behind his desk, his tone light but loaded.

Francesco's jaw tightened. Bride? The word felt like a noose tightening around his neck. "Bride?" he repeated, knowing full well where this conversation was headed.

Paolo's cheerful demeanor flickered, replaced with something darker. He placed his glasses back on, his eyes boring into Francesco. "Sit." It was a command, not a request.

With a reluctant sigh, Francesco dropped into the hard acrylic chair, its sleek, uncomfortable design at odds with the lavish surroundings.

The office looked like something imported straight from Dubai, a gleaming display of wealth and excess, much like the man seated across from him. Francesco had dreaded this conversation for weeks, knowing Paolo wasn't just a business associate—he was a viper lying in wait.

Francesco had once thought that working with Paolo was the win of a lifetime.

The older man rarely allied with anyone, and their partnership had brought him more money in three years than he'd seen in six. But Paolo's ambition knew no bounds. His proposal to marry an American girl to ease their operations had seemed like a joke at first.

Then, it became a demand. And demands from men like Paolo weren't things you could ignore.

"Eleanor," Paolo said smoothly, watching Francesco's reaction like a hawk. "She sounds lovely. You should have brought her by."

Francesco's heart thudded painfully against his ribs. Eleanor. His mind raced, trying to keep up with Paolo's implications. Of course, the man knew. He always knew more than he let on.

"She's... fine," Francesco said, his voice stiff. "I wasn't aware you were keeping tabs."

Paolo chuckled, though there was no warmth in it. "When's the wedding, Francesco? We're losing millions the longer you delay."

"My sister's handling the plans," Francesco lied. "It's moving along."

Paolo's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'll expect an invitation."

The air between them thickened as Paolo leaned back, satisfied for now, but the underlying threat lingered in the silence.

Francesco knew he couldn't stall forever. Paolo's patience was thin, and Francesco's refusal to play along with the marriage scheme had already cost him. Ports seized, shipments lost. It was Paolo's way of tightening the leash.

When Paolo brought up the port next, it was as if Francesco had been waiting for it. "Funny how those problems always seem to happen when you're pissed at me," Francesco said, allowing a hint of his own frustration to seep into his voice.

Paolo shrugged, nonchalant. "It's the nature of the business, my friend. We all have our... expectations."

Francesco rose from his seat, understanding the true purpose of this meeting. It wasn't about the wedding or the shipments.

It was about Paolo reminding him who held the reins.

After a curt farewell, Francesco was led back down the narrow halls, the sound of thumping music and primal grunts filling his ears once more.

But all he could think about was how desperately he needed to get out from under Paolo's thumb.

And fast.

Eleanor stirred awake to the sound of the bedroom door closing softly, the faint click almost swallowed by the silence of the night. Sprawled across the bed, cocooned in blankets, she blinked groggily, trying to make sense of the unusual disturbance.

It wasn't often she heard Francesco come into their shared bedroom. Where did he go every night?

The steady hum of water running from the bathroom pulled her from her thoughts. She rolled over to check her phone.

2 a.m.

She frowned, the flicker of light beneath the bathroom door catching her eye as the sound of the shower shut off. She quickly shifted back to her previous position, burying her face in the pillow, feigning sleep.

When Francesco finally emerged, the steam billowed around him, curling into the cooler air of the bedroom like smoke.

A towel hung low on his hips, clinging to his lean frame, his defined V-shaped muscles leading into the towel catching Eleanor's gaze in a way she couldn't control.

She felt her pulse quicken, eyes shamelessly tracing every line and contour of his body, noting the light peppering of hair on his chest that disappeared beneath the towel.

Her gaze hovered over the bulge beneath the fabric, and heat flushed her cheeks.

Francesco seemed unaware of her prying eyes as he moved to the dresser, going through his nightly routine. He applied deodorant, then sprayed cologne over his chest—the scent she always noticed lingering on him, now revealing itself as part of his meticulous grooming.

She watched in silent fascination as he dropped the towel, but guilt quickly prickled at her skin. Turning away, she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling as if she had stolen too much of a moment not meant for her.

The rustle of fabric behind her was followed by his voice, low and thick with fatigue. "Did I wake you?"

Eleanor hesitated before turning over, relieved to find him wearing pants now. "No, you're fine. It's your room after all..." She sat up, suddenly aware of the mess her hair likely resembled after a night of restless tossing and turning.

Francesco smirked, his eyes catching the wild state of her hair as he tossed the towel into the hamper. She couldn't help but follow his every move, something about him captivated her in ways she hadn't anticipated.

"Can I ask you something?" Her voice wavered slightly as she sat upright.

"Sure," he replied, casually sitting at the edge of the bed, his hands lazily rubbing lotion into his skin.

"What do you do for a living?" The question tumbled out before she could stop it.

His brow furrowed, taken aback by the sudden inquiry. "Hm?"

"You come home really late and leave early. I was just curious... is it work keeping you out or... something else?"

Her voice trailed off, realizing the implications of her question. Their marriage was built on convenience, nothing more, but a part of her wondered if he had someone else occupying his time, someone who made him smile in ways she had never seen.

Francesco turned his gaze toward her, eyes narrowing. "Are you asking if I have a lover, Eleanor?"

Her face flushed with embarrassment. "No, I just—"

"I'm teasing," he interrupted with a chuckle, "I'm in shipping."

"Shipping? Like... sss?" she asked, trying to ease the tension.

He laughed softly. "Think bigger. It's more than just packages. It's about people, money, supplies. Boring. Just long hours and endless responsibilities."

Eleanor felt a pang of curiosity—how could something so ordinary keep him out at all hours of the night? "When do you relax?" she asked, her voice soft. "I don't think I've seen you sleep once since I got here."

Francesco let out a tired sigh, rubbing his temples. "I'll relax once this wedding nonsense is over. Until then, I keep moving."

He stood and made his way to the couch, clearly intent on retreating there for the night. But Eleanor wasn't going to let him get away so easily.

She followed him to the couch, standing beside him. "What are you doing?" Francesco muttered, his frustration evident. "I'm too tired for games."

"This isn't a game," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "You take the bed tonight. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Eleanor, please," he groaned, rubbing his temples again. "I have the worst headache, and I need to be up in four hours. Just... get in the bed."

"You're exhausted," she countered. "Let me do something first. It'll only take a minute."

He looked at her, his fatigue dulling his resistance. "What is it?"

Eleanor smiled softly, guiding him back to the bed. "It's something my mom used to do when she had migraines."

Francesco sat down, allowing her to stand between his legs, confusion flickering in his tired eyes. She placed her thumbs gently on his temples, applying slow, deliberate pressure. His eyes closed almost immediately, his body relaxing as she massaged the tension from his head.

"My mom would get terrible migraines," Eleanor whispered as her hands worked. "Nothing ever helped except this. It helps release the pressure."

Francesco's breathing slowed as her fingers worked their magic, the exhaustion finally taking its toll. His shoulders sagged, the tension fading away.

"Why are you stopping?" Francesco mumbled drowsily when she paused.

"It works better if you lie back," she lied.

Too tired to argue, Francesco reclined, his head resting in her lap. She continued her soothing touch, feeling his body melt into the bed, his breathing deepening.

After a few minutes, Eleanor asked softly, "Still awake?"

A soft snore answered her.

She smiled to herself, gently sliding out from beneath him, replacing her lap with a pillow. Draping a blanket over him, she climbed into bed beside him, careful to leave a pillow between them—just in case he woke up and protested her closeness.

But within moments, she too was fast asleep, the distance between them feeling smaller than it had ever been.