The King's Claim

Chapter 3: Broken Wings

The Romano mansion had become her prison.

Days melted into one another, each identical in its cruelty, each a reminder that her life as a De Luca princess was gone. The silks and diamonds, the laughter of parties and the gentle protection of her father’s men; all of it had been stripped away the night Matteo executed Antonio before her eyes.

Now, Maria’s world was stone walls and iron locks, bruised ribs and hunger that clawed at her belly like a feral beast.

The household staff, loyal to Matteo’s reign, treated her with a mix of disdain and glee. Where once maids had curtsied in her presence, they now smirked as they shoved buckets into her hands and watched her scrub bloodstains from the marble floors. Her hands blistered and bled, but no one offered her mercy.

“Scrub harder, princess,” one of them jeered, her tone mocking. “You missed a spot. Maybe if you polish it enough, you’ll see your crown in the shine.”

Maria’s jaw tightened. She pressed the rag harder into the floor until her nails cracked against the stone. But she said nothing. Not to them. Not when Matteo’s eyes might be watching from the shadows.

Yet silence didn’t mean surrender.

Every scrape of the rag, every drop of blood she left behind, was a vow. A vow that she would not break, no matter how much he tried to grind her down.

Meals were no longer meals, they were scraps tossed her way like she was a dog. Sometimes stale bread, sometimes the hardened edge of cheese, sometimes nothing at all. She ate on the floor, knees tucked against her chest, while Matteo’s men feasted at the long table above her.

On one such night, the laughter of his capos echoed through the dining hall. Maria sat in the corner, her stomach cramping from hunger, when Matteo entered. The men straightened immediately, their jokes dying mid-breath.

He filled the room simply by existing; broad shoulders in a tailored black suit, his aura of command so suffocating that even seasoned killers bowed their heads.

But his eyes found only her.

Maria froze as he crossed the room, each step deliberate, his polished shoes clicking against the marble. He stopped before her, towering, his shadow consuming her.

“You’re not eating,” he said. His voice was smooth, almost casual, but beneath it simmered a threat.

She forced herself to look up, her lips trembling but her eyes steady. “Because you don’t feed me.”

A murmur rippled through the room. No one spoke to him like that.

Matteo’s gaze darkened. He crouched, grabbing the crust of bread from her lap and holding it inches from her face. “Eat.”

Her pride screamed at her to slap it away. But her body screamed louder. She snatched the bread and bit into it, her jaw clenched as if chewing stone.

Matteo watched her swallow, his expression unreadable. Then, with a faint smirk, he straightened. “Good girl.”

The words burned worse than any beating.

Punishments were routine, each one devised to remind her she was no longer Maria De Luca, daughter of Antonio, but Matteo’s property.

One morning, she was ordered to clean the grand foyer before Matteo’s guests arrived. She scrubbed until her knees bled, until her fingers were raw, but when he descended the stairs, he looked down at her work and frowned.

“Not good enough.”

Before she could protest, two guards seized her, dragging her outside into the courtyard. The winter air was merciless, biting into her skin. Matteo followed, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets, his expression calm.

“Strip her shoes,” he ordered.

They obeyed, tearing the worn flats from her feet. The stone beneath was frozen, sharp as knives.

“Walk,” Matteo said.

Maria’s breath caught. “What?”

“Walk until I tell you to stop.”

Her pride told her to spit in his face, to refuse, but the grip of the guards was iron, and she knew what disobedience brought. So she walked, bare feet pressing against the ice, her body trembling with each step. Around the courtyard she went, again and again, as his men watched. Some laughed. Others averted their eyes.

When her legs finally buckled, Matteo’s voice cut through the air. “On your knees.”

She sank down, gasping, her breath fogging in the cold. He crouched before her, taking her chin in his gloved hand.

“This,” he murmured, his tone almost tender, “is mercy. Remember that.”

He released her, and she collapsed onto the stone, the skin of her knees torn open.

Despite the torment, Maria refused to bow in spirit.

One night, Matteo came to her chamber, his steps heavy in the silence. She was curled on the thin mattress, her body aching, when the door creaked open.

He stood in the doorway, his frame filling it, his presence oppressive. “Get up,” he ordered.

She forced herself upright, her back straight despite the pain.

“You hate me,” he said, stepping closer. His eyes gleamed in the dim light. “I see it every time you look at me. Good. Keep hating me. But understand this; you will obey. Because if you don’t…” His gaze drifted, slow and deliberate, to the window where Marco’s shadow was faintly visible across the courtyard. “I’ll make him pay instead.”

Maria’s chest constricted. Her fists tightened at her sides.

“Coward,” she whispered.

The word sliced through the air like a blade.

Matteo’s jaw tightened. He seized her by the throat, pressing her against the wall. The pressure stole her breath, but her eyes never left his. They blazed with fury, with defiance, with something that refused to die.

For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then Matteo released her, letting her crumple onto the mattress, gasping for air.

He leaned close, his voice a dark promise. “You’ll break, Maria. Everyone breaks.”

But as the door slammed shut behind him, Maria wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand. Her

throat burned, her body ached, but her heart whispered one truth.

Not me.