HIS FORBIDDEN BRIDE

The gunshot woke me at 6:03 AM. Not a real one. A memory. My 16th birthday. My brother bleeding out on our kitchen floor. My father’s voice over his body: _“This is what happens when you cross the Romanos.”_ Five years later, and the Romanos were still collecting. Today was my 21st. Today was also the day I was being sold. “Get up, Lila.” My stepmother, Rosa, didn’t knock. She never did. She just pushed open the door to the room I’d shared with my sister since we were kids and let the morning light slice across my face. “You have 30 minutes. Luca Romano’s men are already downstairs.” I sat up slowly. My hands didn’t shake. They hadn’t shaken since I was 16 and learned that shaking got you hit. “Coffee?” I asked. My voice was steady. I was proud of that. “Don’t get cute,” Rosa snapped. “Put on the dress. The red one. He requested it.” _He._ Luca Romano. The Devil of Chicago. 30 years old. 6’3. Scars on his knuckles and blood on his name. My fiancé. By force. I showered in silence. Let the hot water burn the sleep off me. When I stepped out, the red dress was laid on the bed. Silk. Backless. Slit up to my thigh. A peace offering. A target. “It’s ugly,” I said. “It’s 2 million dollars worth of silk,” Rosa said. “Now put it on. Your father’s already at the church.” My father. The man who traded his daughter to save his own skin. I didn’t cry. I hadn’t cried in 5 years. 30 minutes later, I was in the back of a black SUV. Two of Luca’s men in the front. Both of them had guns. Both of them didn’t look at me. We drove through Chicago in the rain. The city looked like glass and knives. The church was old. Catholic. White stone and secrets. Paparazzi weren’t allowed. But the street was lined with cars anyway. Black. Tinted. Men standing outside smoking like this was just another Tuesday. Because for the Romanos, it was. The doors opened. And there he was. Luca Romano. He wasn’t waiting at the altar. He was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Like a king greeting a subject. He wore black. Of course. Tailored suit. No tie. The first two buttons of his shirt undone. And he was looking at me like he already owned me. My father stood beside him. Sweating. Smiling. The coward. “Lila,” my father said, voice too loud. “You look beautiful, tesoro.” I didn’t answer him. I looked at Luca. Up close, he was worse. Better. Dark hair, cut short. Jaw sharp enough to cut. Eyes the color of whiskey and winter. And a mouth that didn’t smile. When his eyes dragged down my body, down the red dress, down the bare skin of my back, I felt it. Heat. Anger. Something I didn’t have a name for. “Signora Moretti,” he said. His voice was low. Rough. Like he didn’t use it much. “Happy birthday.” “Thank you, Mr. Romano.” “Luca,” he corrected. “You’ll be my wife in 20 minutes. You can call me Luca.” My stomach twisted. He held out his hand. I stared at it. Scar across the knuckles. A ring on his pinky. Old money. Old violence. I took it. His hand was warm. Mine was ice. But he didn’t let go. He laced our fingers together and pulled me up the steps. Inside, the church was empty except for 12 men. All armed. All watching. My sister wasn’t here. Rosa wasn’t here. Just business. The priest started talking. Latin. English. Vows I didn’t write. Luca answered for both of us. “I do.” When it came to me, he turned. Fully. And waited. All 12 men were watching. My father was watching. Luca was watching. “I do,” I said. He slipped the ring on my finger. Platinum. Cold. A diamond the size of my fear. “Kiss the bride,” the priest said. Luca didn’t move. Not until I looked up at him. Then his hand came up. Cupped my jaw. Thumb brushing under my eye like he was wiping away tears that weren’t there. And he kissed me. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t a church kiss. It was claiming. His mouth hard on mine. His other hand at my waist, under the silk, fingers pressing into skin. I tasted whiskey and danger. When he pulled back, my lips were parted. My cheeks were red. And every man in that church had seen it. “Mrs. Romano,” Luca murmured against my mouth. Only for me. “Welcome to the family.” The reception was in a private room at a restaurant downtown. More men. More guns. More toasts to “peace” and “the future.” I didn’t eat. I drank water. Luca drank whiskey. He didn’t speak to me once during dinner. But his hand stayed on my thigh. Under the table. Heavy. Possessive. Every time I shifted, his fingers tightened. By 10 PM, my father was drunk and crying about “family unity.” By 10:15, Luca stood. “We’re leaving.” That was it. No goodbye. No thank you. He took my hand again and led me out. The car was waiting. Same SUV. Rain on the windows. He didn’t speak until we were 10 minutes into the drive. Until the city lights turned into gates. Until we were pulling up to a house that looked more like a fortress. “Do you have questions?” he asked. Still looking out the window. “A few,” I said. He turned then. Looked at me. Really looked. “Ask.” “Where’s my sister?” “Safe. In Italy. With my aunt.” “Why me?” He was quiet for a long time. Then: “Because your father owed me 40 million dollars. And because you were 21 today. And because I was tired of waiting for someone to offer me something worth keeping.” The car stopped. Two men opened our doors. Luca got out first. Then held out his hand for me. I took it. The house was massive. Marble. Cold. No photos on the walls. No warmth. He led me up a staircase. Down a hall. Stopped at a door. “This is your room,” he said. It was bigger than my entire apartment. King bed. Red sheets. Red roses on the nightstand. Of course. “Thank you,” I said. Luca leaned against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Watching me. “Rule 1,” he said. “You don’t leave this house without me or my men.” “Rule 2. You don’t speak to the press.” “Rule 3.” His eyes dropped to my mouth. Back up. “You don’t touch me unless I tell you to.” I lifted my chin. “And what do I get?” “Protection,” he said. “Money. A name that keeps you alive.” A pause. “And me.” The word hung in the air. “Is that all?” I asked. Voice steady. “No,” Luca said. He pushed off the doorframe. Stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. The click was loud. He crossed to me in 3 steps. Not touching. Just... close. Close enough that I could smell him. Whiskey. Soap. Something darker. “You’re shaking,” he said. “I’m not.” “Liar.” His hand came up. Not to hit. He brushed his thumb over my bottom lip. “You’re brave. I’ll give you that.” Then he dropped his hand. “Get some sleep, Lila. Tomorrow, the real work starts.” He turned to leave. “Luca.” He stopped. Didn’t turn around. “Was it worth it?” I asked. “Trading 40 million for a wife?” Now he turned. Slow. And for the first time tonight, he almost smiled. “No,” he said. “It was worth it for this.” His eyes raked over me. The red dress. The bare skin. The defiance in my eyes. “I don’t want a wife, Lila. I want you.” He left before I could answer. I locked the door. I stared at the red roses. I pressed my fingers to my lips where he’d kissed me. And I realized something. The Devil didn’t buy a bride today. He bought a war. And I was done being the price.