The Don’s Reluctant Bride

CHAPTER TWO : HOUSE OF DELUCA

Alessia's POV :

The car arrived exactly at noon on the third day.

I stood at my bedroom window, watching the black Mercedes pull through the gates. I’d spent the morning packing a single suitcase, just enough to prove a point. If Matteo thought I’d be settling in permanently, he could think again. This was temporary. An arrangement. The moment I found a way out, I’d take it.

I’d kept my phone on Do Not Disturb for two days. When I finally checked it that morning, the damage was clear: twelve messages from Luca, eight from Chiara including voicemails, three from suppliers, and one from some guy asking if I wanted drinks next week. Like my life was normal.

I didn’t answer any of them. Not yet.

Downstairs, Papa hovered near the entrance. We hadn’t spoken since that night in the dining room. He’d tried knocking on my door, but I wasn’t ready for his excuses.

The driver was a silent man with cold eyes who loaded my suitcase without a word.

“Signorina Rossi.” He opened the car door. “Are you ready?”

I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway. Papa appeared at my side. “Alessia, please. Can we talk?”

“No.” I kept my eyes forward. “We can’t.”

“I know you’re angry..”

“I’m not angry, Papa.” I finally looked at him, and whatever he saw in my face made him step back. “I feel empty. You took the one thing Mama wanted for me, the choice to live my own life and you traded it away to save yourself. So no, we don’t have anything to say to each other.”

His face crumpled. For a second, he looked like he might cry, and I hated that part of me still cared.

“Your mother would..”

“Don’t you dare tell me what Mama would want.” My voice was ice. “She’d be ashamed of what you’ve become.”

I walked away before he could respond before I could see the tears I knew were forming. The last time I’d seen my father cry was the day Mama died.

The driver held the door open. I slid inside without looking back. As we pulled away from the estate, I refused to watch it disappear in the rearview mirror. That part of my life was over.

Whatever came next, I’d face it without crying.

The drive took forty-five minutes. We left the countryside behind and headed toward the coast, winding through narrow roads that climbed higher with each turn. The view should have been breathtaking—the Bay of Naples spreading out below, Vesuvius brooding in the distance, but I couldn’t focus on beauty. Only on the growing sense that I was driving toward a prison.

When we finally stopped, I understood why Matteo DeLuca was feared. The mansion wasn’t just a home—it was a statement of power. Modern, all sharp angles and dark glass, it perched on the clifftop like a predator surveying its territory. High walls surrounded the property, topped with security cameras that tracked our arrival. Armed guards flanked the entrance, and somewhere in the compound, I heard the low bark of dogs.

The driver opened my door. “Welcome to Villa DeLuca.”

I stepped out. The ocean wind whipped my hair around my face, and far below, waves crashed against the rocks with violence that felt appropriate. “Is Don Matteo here?” I asked.

“He’s in a meeting. Signora Bianchi will show you to your room.”

Of course, he wasn’t here. Why welcome his unwanted bride when he could send staff to handle it?

Signora Bianchi was exactly what I expected: a woman in her late fifties with grey hair pulled into a severe bun and a scarf tied around her hair.

“Signorina Rossi.” Her tone was professionally cold. “I manage the household. If you need anything, you can come to me. Not Don Matteo—he’s far too busy for domestic concerns.”

“Understood.”

“Your room is on the third floor. Breakfast is at eight, lunch at one, dinner at eight. Don Matteo expects punctuality.”

I resisted rolling my eyes. “And if I’m not hungry?”

She paused, turning to give me a look that suggested she’d dealt with difficult women before and found them all equally tiresome. “Then you sit at the table anyway. Appearances matter in this family.”

We climbed a sweeping staircase and passed through corridors lined with expensive art that felt sterile despite its value. Everything was perfect.

“The east wing is Don Matteo’s private quarters,” Signora Bianchi continued. “You’re not to enter without permission. The west wing houses guest rooms and the library. The ground floor..”

“Is there an office?” I interrupted.

She frowned. “Don Matteo has an office, yes. Why?”

“I’ll need a workspace. I’m still managing my vineyard remotely.”

“That won’t be necessary. Don Matteo can arrange for someone to handle..”

“It’s my business.” My voice sharpened. “I’ll handle it.”

We stared at each other. Finally, Signora Bianchi’s lips compressed into a thin line. “I’ll speak to Don Matteo about arranging something suitable.”

“Thank you.”

We reached the third floor. She opened a door at the end of a long hallway.

“Your room.”

The space was beautiful, I had to give them that. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sea, flooding the room with light despite the dark furniture. A massive bed dominated one wall, draped in charcoal linens. There was a sitting area with a leather sofa, a desk positioned to catch the view, and a bathroom that belonged in a luxury hotel.

“Your belongings will be unpacked shortly,” Signora Bianchi said. “Dinner is at eight. I suggest you rest.”

“Where is Don Matteo’s room?”

Something flickered in her eyes. “The east wing. As I mentioned.”

“How far?”

“Far enough.” She moved toward the door. “For now.”

Thank God. The thought of sharing a room—sharing a bed—with him made my stomach turn.

“One more thing, Signora Bianchi.” She paused.

“Is there a key? For this room?”

“No. Don Matteo doesn’t believe in locked doors within his own home.”

Of course he didn’t.

She left without another word, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality.

I stood in the centre of that beautiful prison and let myself feel the full weight of my situation for exactly one minute. Then I pushed it down, locked it away, and got to work.

I opened my phone. Three bars of service—at least, he hadn’t cut me off completely.

I started with Luca because if I didn’t contact him soon, he’d probably show up in Naples with questions I couldn’t answer.

**ME:** *Family situation keeping me in Naples longer than expected. You’re in charge of the vineyard. Don’t let Paolo order from that supplier in Siena—they water down everything.*

His response came immediately.

**LUCA:** *Are you okay?*

**LUCA:** *Alessia seriously what’s going on? *

I typed and deleted three responses before settling on:

**ME:** *I’ll explain when I can. Trust me, the vineyard is safer if you don’t ask questions right now.*

I turned off notifications before he could argue.

Chiara was harder. I opened her messages—eight of them, increasingly worried—and my chest tightened.

**CHIARA:** *Hey! How’s Naples? Your dad okay?*

**CHIARA:** *Alessia?*

**CHIARA:** *You’re scaring me. Call me.*

**CHIARA:** *I’m about to drive down there*

I couldn’t tell her the truth. Not when I didn’t fully understand it myself.

**ME:** *I’m okay. Family stuff is complicated, but I’m fine. I’ll call you soon. Promise.*

I set my phone down and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The exhaustion hit all at once, three days of tension, anger, fear, all catching up.

I closed my eyes. Just for a minute.

When I woke, it was dark. I grabbed my phone. 7:47 PM.

Shit.

I took a quick shower and threw on a simple black dress and flats. If Matteo expected me to dress like a mafia wife, he was about to be disappointed and headed downstairs.