Married To The Don's Cold Heart

Chapter 2 – The proposal

Moretti Tower didn't have a lobby so much as a warning.

Elena had walked past the building a hundred times in her life. Everyone in the city knew the rules: you walked past it, you didn't walk through it, and you certainly didn't enter unless you had business with the Moretti family. The building rose above the surrounding streets like a monument to everything powerful men could buy, all black glass and polished stone, its upper floors disappearing into the clouds. Now, on a Tuesday afternoon, Elena stood inside it wearing her one good blazer and trying not to look like a woman who had come to negotiate the terms of her own life.

The security guard at the entrance barely glanced at her identification before checking something on the tablet in front of him.

"He's expecting you."

Somehow, that was worse than being told Damian wasn't available.

Elena's stomach tightened as the elevator doors opened. She stepped inside, and before she could press a button, the doors closed and the elevator began to rise. She watched the floor numbers climb in silence, wondering how many cameras had already followed her from the moment she'd entered the building and whether Damian knew exactly what she had worn, how long she'd stood at the entrance, and how many times she'd considered turning around and walking out.

By the time the doors opened again, she had decided she didn't care.

She was going to tell him no.

Damian's office looked exactly like Elena imagined a killer's office would look if killers happened to have exquisite taste. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, the dark wood desk looked more like an altar than a place where someone worked, and every surface was perfectly arranged. There were no photographs, no personal possessions, no evidence that anyone had ever laughed in the room.

It was beautiful in the same way a cathedral could be beautiful—grand, imposing, and completely devoid of comfort.

Damian stood behind the desk when she entered, dressed in a dark suit that made him look less like a businessman and more like the man who owned every shadow in the city. His gaze settled on her immediately, carrying the same measuring quality it had on the porch two days ago.

"You came sooner than I expected."

"I came to tell you no."

Elena walked toward his desk and stopped several feet away, folding her arms across her chest. Her palms were damp, but she refused to wipe them against her skirt. She had spent the entire journey reminding herself that fear did not mean weakness, and she wasn't going to let this man see how badly her heart was pounding.

"I looked you up," she continued. "Do you know what people call you? The Ice Don. Do you know what they say happened to the last person who crossed your family?"

"I know exactly what happened to him."

Damian's voice remained completely calm.

"I was the one who arranged it."

For a moment, Elena forgot how to breathe.

She should have run. Every sensible instinct in her body told her that standing alone in a room with Damian Moretti was a terrible idea, especially after he'd just calmly admitted to arranging someone's death. Yet she remained where she was, staring at him as her heart hammered against her ribs.

"And you think I should marry that?"

Something shifted in his expression.

Not anger.

Amusement.

It was subtle, almost impossible to catch, but it was there. Genuine amusement, rare enough that Elena wondered if she'd imagined it. Apparently, she had surprised him again.

"I think," Damian said slowly, "that you should marry the version of that man who forgives your father's debt and puts a security detail around your house instead of a collection notice."

He came around the desk, his movements controlled and unhurried.

"The rest of what I am isn't up for discussion, Elena. It simply exists."

"Then find someone else."

"There isn't time to find someone else."

For the first time since she'd entered the office, something resembling weariness crossed his face. It disappeared almost immediately, but Elena noticed it.

"The Sabatinis have been circling my territory since my father died," he said. "They've been waiting for a weakness, something they can use to challenge the Moretti family without starting a war they aren't prepared to finish. A marriage gives me something they can't easily exploit."

Elena frowned.

"A marriage?"

"A legitimate one. A wife with no connection to any family involved in this business. Someone they can't accuse of being part of an alliance designed to strengthen my position."

He stopped in front of her.

"It tells every don in this city that I'm not building another alliance through blood ties they can manipulate. I'm building a life. Something stable. Something they can't easily threaten without making themselves look like the aggressors."

Elena stared at him.

"You're describing yourself as stable?"

His mouth twitched.

"No. I'm describing the message I want everyone else to believe."

Despite herself, Elena almost smiled.

Almost.

Then she remembered who he was.

"And what exactly does this life look like for me?" she asked. "Because so far, all you've offered me is a very expensive prison."

"You'll have money you never have to worry about again. Protection that very few people in this city could challenge. Your father will be free from the debt, and no collector will ever come to his door again."

Damian's expression hardened.

"And I will never let anything happen to you inside my walls. That is the one promise I intend to keep absolutely."

Elena's throat tightened.

"And outside your walls?"

"Outside my walls, you'll be my wife."

He held her gaze.

"That means you'll be the most protected woman in this city, and also the most watched. I won't lie to you about the cost. I don't lie, Elena. It's a waste of breath."

She looked away for a moment, trying to absorb everything he had just said. Money. Protection. Her father's freedom. A husband she didn't know and couldn't trust. A life where every movement would be watched because she had become attached to the most dangerous man in the city.

None of it sounded like freedom.

"What happens if I say no anyway?"

Damian didn't answer immediately.

When he finally spoke, his voice was as flat as it had been on the porch.

"Friday happens as scheduled."

Elena's stomach twisted.

"I don't enjoy explaining to a nineteen-year-old girl why her father didn't come home," he continued. "I'd rather not have to live with that."

His eyes remained fixed on hers.

"I find I'd rather not have to live with a great many things where you're concerned, and I've known you for two days."

The words seemed to surprise him.

For one brief, unguarded second, the carefully constructed mask slipped. Elena saw something beneath it—something uncertain and almost frustrated, as though Damian himself couldn't understand why she had managed to occupy his thoughts so quickly.

Then it was gone.

Elena stared at him, this stranger who could speak about murder and mercy in the same measured breath. He frightened her, but there was something else beneath the fear now, something she didn't want to examine too closely.

Awareness.

She was suddenly aware of the distance between them, of the quietness of his office, of the exhaustion hiding beneath his cold expression, and of the strange fact that he seemed to be fighting something inside himself just as fiercely as she was fighting him.

She hated that she noticed.

She hated even more that she wanted to know what it was.

"One week," she said.

Damian's brows drew together slightly.

"I need one week to say goodbye to my life."

"You have until Sunday."

"That's five days."

"Six."

She glanced toward the window.

"You're counting today?"

"I'm counting the days until you stop pretending this decision is going to change."

Elena's jaw tightened.

"You really are arrogant."

"I've been called worse."

She turned toward the door before he could say anything else.

"Elena."

She stopped but didn't look back.

"You should understand something before you make your decision."

His voice had changed. It was quieter now, stripped of the faint amusement that had colored their conversation.

"If you marry me, there will be people who try to use you against me. There will be people who hate you simply because you carry my name. You may hear things about me that you don't want to hear. You may see things you don't want to see."

Elena slowly turned around.

"Then why would you want me involved in this?"

Damian looked at her for several seconds before answering.

"Because I believe you'll survive it."

Something about the certainty in his voice unsettled her more than any threat could have.

She reached for the door.

"Goodbye, Damian."

She had barely taken a step when his hand closed around her wrist.

Elena froze.

The touch wasn't rough. He didn't pull her toward him or try to force her back. His fingers simply circled her wrist, stopping her long enough for his eyes to meet hers.

His thumb rested briefly against her pulse.

She could feel her heartbeat beneath his skin.

For the first time since she'd met him, Damian looked genuinely surprised.

Not by her.

By the way her pulse betrayed her.

"Thank you for not running," he said.

Elena swallowed.

"I thought about it."

"I know."

His thumb moved once, almost absentmindedly, before he released her.

"I would have let you."

She rubbed her wrist as she stepped backward.

"Would you?"

Something unreadable crossed his face.

"Yes."

She didn't believe him.

But she wanted to.

Elena turned and walked out of the office without looking back. She made it through the elevator, past the security desk, and out onto the crowded street before the control she'd fought so hard to maintain finally broke.

Three blocks away, she sat down on a bus-stop bench and pressed both hands against her face.

Then she cried.

Not for the wedding.

Not yet.

She cried because her entire life had been reduced to a choice she had never asked to make, because her father's mistakes had become her burden, and because the terrifying man who had just offered to buy her future had somehow managed to make her feel safer than she had felt in weeks.

And she cried because of the way his thumb had rested against her pulse.

It had been the first honest touch anyone had given her in years.

She hated that she remembered it.

She hated that she wanted to feel it again.

By the time Elena finally stood, she had six days left to decide whether Damian Moretti was a monster, a man doing terrible things for reasons she didn't understand, or perhaps the only person in her life who had been completely honest with her.

She still didn't have an answer when Sunday came.