Chapter three: The Reluctant prince
979 Words
Matteo Romano hated mornings.
Not because of the hour, but because mornings meant another day chained to a legacy he wanted no part of. Another day pretending the blood on their family name didn’t choke him.
He adjusted the cuff of his jacket as he stood at the top of the villa steps, jaw clenched. Below, the DeLuca convoy rolled to a stop, black cars gleaming like beetles in the sun. His stomach turned.
The DeLucas. His family’s rivals for decades. The same people who had put Romano blood on the ground. And now, thanks to his father’s failing lungs and failing grip, he was expected to welcome them like friends.
Like family.
The car doors opened. Don DeLuca emerged first, as arrogant as ever, his presence filling the driveway like a storm cloud. Beside him, his sons, sharp in their suits. And then
Her.
For a moment, Matteo forgot to breathe.
The daughter. He’d heard whispers about her, spoiled, beautiful, a pawn her father polished and paraded when it suited him. But the woman walking toward him now was no pawn.
She moved like someone wearing shackles she intended to break. Her crimson gown clung to her curves like fire, her chin lifted in defiance. And when her eyes met his dark, burning, alive, something twisted low in his chest.
He crushed it instantly.
She was a DeLuca. Enemy blood. Enemy beauty. Nothing more.
“Don Romano.” Don DeLuca’s voice carried across the steps, smooth and practiced. “Thank you for hosting us.”
His father stepped forward, coughing into a handkerchief before offering a thin smile. Matteo’s fists tightened. Every cough was a reminder: soon the weight of the Romano empire would fall on his shoulders. A weight he didn’t want. A weight that was killing him slowly.
“And this must be your daughter,” his father’s words grated. Beautiful. She will make a fine symbol of peace.”
Matteo’s teeth ground together. A symbol. As if her worth was no more than a decoration on their fragile truce.
His eyes flicked at her again, taking in the forced smile on her lips, the tension in her shoulders. She hated this as much as he did.
It should have softened him. Instead, it fueled the storm brewing in his chest.
“Symbols don’t end wars,” he said, his voice low, rough.
A murmur of disapproval rippled through the DeLucas. Don DeLuca’s stare cut sharp, but Matteo didn’t look away. He wouldn’t bow, not now, not ever.
And then she spoke.
“Better a daughter,” she said coolly, “than a son who doesn’t want his crown.”
Her words struck like a blade. For the first time, Matteo faltered. His chest tightened, not with anger though it burned hot but with something sharper.
She saw him. Saw the one truth he kept buried beneath duty and rage.
He should have hated her for it.
But as her gaze held his, fire meeting storm, Matteo felt something he hadn’t expected.
Not hate. Not yet.
Something far more dangerous.
The meeting shifted inside, into the Romano villa’s great hall. Chandeliers spilled golden light across long tables set with crystal glasses and silver trays. Servants moved like shadows, filling plates and pouring wine.
Matteo sat stiffly at his father’s side, the weight of her words still burning in his chest.
A son who doesn’t want his crown.
Damn her. Damn her for seeing what others ignored. For saying out loud what he barely admitted to himself.
He lifted his glass, more to hide the tightness in his jaw than to drink. Across the table, she sat beside Don DeLuca, posture perfect, her crimson dress a flare of defiance against polished wood. She didn’t look at him, not directly, but he felt her presence like heat.
His father’s voice droned beside him, smooth as oil. This alliance will bring stability. Profits will rise, blood will cool. The city will see unity where once there was chaos.”
Matteo’s hand tightened around his glass. Stability, unity, words that meant nothing. Beneath them was only control. Control of the streets, control of the families, control of him.
He caught a fragment of her laugh, light, practiced, too sharp to be real. It curled in his gut.
He didn’t want this life. He didn’t want her. And yet, when her eyes finally flicked to his, just for a second, his chest tightened like a fist.
Later, when the families retired to the study to talk business, Matteo remained behind with his father. The old man sank into a leather chair, his cough rattling the silence.
“You embarrassed us,” his father rasped, eyes like dull steel.
Matteo crossed his arms. “Better truth than theater.”
The Don’s lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. “Truth doesn’t win wars, figlio mio. Power does. And symbols, yes, even unwilling daughters are power.”
Matteo said nothing. The old anger pressed heavy on his chest. He hated this game, hated being groomed as the next king of an empire built on fear.
His father’s voice softened, but the weight behind it only grew heavier. You will learn to carry this name. To chain it around your neck until it feels like skin. And you will stand beside that girl, because the family demands it.”
Matteo turned away, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Through the window, he could see her in the courtyard below, speaking quietly with her brother. The wind caught her hair, and for one treacherous moment, he imagined what it would feel like to touch it.
He cursed under his breath.
She was a DeLuca. She was the enemy.
And yet he could still hear her voice in his head, sharp as a blade: a son who doesn’t want his crown.
- Writer
