HIS SECRET HEIRESS

THE MASTER BEDROOM

CHAPTER 3: THE MASTER BEDROOM

The hallway to Lorenzo De Luca's bedroom felt like walking to an execution.

Marble floors. Cold. Silent.

Paintings of men with guns on the walls.

This was a house built by blood and kept by fear.

My bare feet made no sound on the stone.

I was still in the silk nightgown from dinner. Pale blue. Too thin.

I felt naked. Exposed. Like he could see right through me.

Two guards stood outside the double doors.

They didn't look at me. Didn't speak.

But when I reached for the handle, one of them opened it for me.

"Thank you," I whispered.

No answer.

The door swung open.

And there it was.

Lorenzo's bedroom.

Bigger than my entire apartment in Brooklyn.

Black marble. Black sheets. Black walls that swallowed the light.

The only thing bright was the New York skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows.

It looked like the stars had fallen and gotten trapped inside his room.

It smelled like him.

Cologne. Leather. Cigarettes. And something darker underneath.

Power.

"Close the door."

His voice came from the bed.

I jumped. I hadn't seen him.

Lorenzo De Luca was lying in the center of a king-sized bed.

Shirtless. Black sweatpants riding low on his hips.

Arms crossed behind his head. Tattoos on full display.

A gun on the nightstand next to him. Casual. Like it was a book.

His dark hair was damp. Like he'd just showered.

Water still clung to his collarbone.

And his eyes...

God, his eyes were on me.

Dragging from my bare feet up to my face.

Slow. Possessive. Like he was buying me.

"Get in," he said. He patted the empty space next to him.

The sheets were already pulled back on his side.

Waiting.

"I don't sleep with strangers," I said.

My voice came out stronger than I felt.

Lorenzo's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

"You're not a stranger, Isabella. You're my wife."

He said the word like it was a weapon. "Last warning."

My hands were trembling at my sides.

The contract didn't say I had to share a bed.

It said "in name only".

But the contract also had a clause on page 4, paragraph 2:

`The wife will obey all reasonable requests of the husband.`

Reasonable.

Was this reasonable?

I looked at the door. At the guards. At the 20-story drop outside.

There was nowhere to run.

So I did the only thing I could.

I walked to the other side of the bed and climbed in.

As far from him as physically possible.

I kept the entire width of the king bed between us.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin like armor.

The mattress dipped immediately when he moved.

I froze.

I felt him before I saw him.

Heat. Radiating off him.

His scent, stronger now. Wrapping around me.

"Good girl," he murmured. Right behind my ear.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Don't touch me."

"I won't," he said. And I believed him.

Lorenzo De Luca doesn't break promises.

He breaks people. And then he makes new rules.

Silence stretched.

Thick. Heavy. Oppressive.

The only sounds were the city 80 floors below and my own racing heart.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I could feel his body heat. So close.

I could feel myself wanting to move closer without meaning to.

Stupid. Traitorous body.

Then his hand moved.

Not to me.

To the blanket.

He tugged it. Pulled it up higher over both of us.

His arm settled behind my head on the pillow.

Not touching me. Just... there.

A wall of muscle between me and the rest of the world.

"Sleep," he ordered. His voice had dropped. Softer now. Rough.

"You look tired."

"I can't sleep next to you," I whispered. "This is wrong."

"You want to know what's wrong?" His voice was low. Dangerous.

"What's wrong is that your father stole 40 million dollars from me and then put a bullet in his head to get out of paying it back."

My chest constricted. "Don't—"

"What's wrong is that every man in this city thinks they can touch you now that Laurent is dead," he continued. Like I hadn't spoken. "What's wrong is that I had to marry you to keep you alive."

I turned my head on the pillow. I could see his profile in the moonlight.

Sharp jaw. Dark stubble. The scar that cut through his eyebrow.

"You don't care about me," I said. "You hate my last name."

Lorenzo was quiet for a long time.

When he spoke, it wasn't to me. It was to the ceiling.

"I hate that I can't stop thinking about you," he finally said.

"I hate that the first thing I did after your father's funeral was put your name on my bank accounts. On my properties. On my life."

I didn't breathe.

"And I hate," he said, turning his head to look at me, "that the only way to keep you safe is to put you in my bed where I can see you."

My heart was in my throat.

This wasn't part of the contract.

This wasn't part of the plan.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

His hand came up. Slow.

I flinched. But he didn't touch me.

His fingers brushed my hair back from my face.

So gentle it made my eyes sting.

"Because the day I let you sleep alone is the day I lose you," he whispered.

"And I don't lose what's mine, Isabella."

Mine.

The word went through me like fire and ice at the same time.

He dropped his hand.

Turned onto his back. Staring at the ceiling again.

"Sleep," he said again. Final.

And the craziest part?

I did.

With the mafia king who hated me.

With the man who destroyed my father.

With my husband.

For the first time in 3 weeks...

I slept.

Because the devil had decided to be my guard dog.

When I woke up at 6 AM, the bed was cold.

He was already gone.

But on the nightstand, where the gun had been,

was a cup of coffee.

Black. Just how I drank it.

And a note.

`Meeting at 8. Be ready. -L`

P.S. Stop wearing that to bed. It distracts me.

I crumpled the note in my fist.

Lorenzo De Luca was the most dangerous man I knew.

And I was starting to think the most dangerous part

was how much I wanted him to stay.