HIS FORBIDDEN BRIDE

CHAPTER 6

“Put on something expensive.”

That was Luca at 9:02 AM. Standing in my doorway. Suit already on. Coffee in hand.

“What?”

“We’re going shopping.”

I blinked. I was in his shirt again. Leggings. Hair a mess. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, eyes dropping to my bare legs, “you’ve been in my house for 9 days and you own exactly 3 dresses that I picked. My wife should have her own.”

“And because Sophia is coming back in 5 days and you want to show off that I’m still alive?”

Luca smiled. Sharp. “That too.”

I should’ve said no. The last time we went out, I ended up with stitches.

But he looked almost... excited. In his own cold way.

“Give me 20 minutes,” I said.

“10,” he replied. “And wear the red ring.”

He left.

I showered. Put on the only normal thing I had: black jeans, white crop top, leather jacket. Hair up. The red heart ring next to the diamond.

When I came down, Luca was waiting in the foyer. Four guards. Two SUVs.

He looked at my outfit. Then at me.

“No,” he said.

“No what?”

“No crop top.”

I looked down. “It’s not that—”

“It is.” He stepped forward. His voice low so only I could hear. “Lila, I’m taking you to Michigan Avenue on a Saturday. Paparazzi, men, women who want what you have. You’re my wife. And that top makes me want to kill every man who looks at you.”

My stomach flipped. “Possessive much?”

“Very,” he said honestly. “Go change. Or wear my jacket closed.”

I rolled my eyes. But zipped the jacket up. “Better?”

He leaned in. Kissed my temple. “For now.”

---

Michigan Avenue was chaos.

People. Lights. Shops.

The moment we stepped out of the SUV, heads turned.

Luca Romano didn’t do shopping. Everyone knew that.

Luca Romano with a woman? Never.

Now Luca Romano with his _wife_ on his arm?

Cameras clicked before we even reached the first store.

“Lila! Luca! How’s married life?”

“Is it true the marriage was arranged?”

“Luca, is she pregnant?”

Luca didn’t flinch. His arm went around my waist. Pulled me into him.

“Ignore them,” he murmured in my ear.

“I am.”

We walked into Gucci first.

The manager was already there. Sweating. “Mr. Romano. Mrs. Romano. We closed the store for you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whispered to Luca.

“I did,” he said. “I don’t share.”

Inside, it was just us. Racks of dresses. Shoes. Bags.

A salesgirl came up, nervous. “Mrs. Romano, what style do you—”

“Everything in her size,” Luca said. “Bring it.”

“Luca, I don’t need everything—”

“You need something that isn’t mine,” he said. “Try.”

So I did.

Red dresses. Black dresses. Silk. Leather.

I came out in a tight black dress, backless.

Luca was on his phone. Looked up. Hung up mid-sentence.

“Buy it.”

“No hello?”

“Buy it. Next.”

I laughed. “You’re terrible at shopping.”

“I’m excellent at shopping,” he corrected. “I’m terrible at pretending I don’t want to take that dress off you right here.”

The salesgirl choked on air.

I turned red. “Luca!”

“What? It’s true.” He stood. Came to me. His hands on my waist. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I do.”

“Then it’s yours.”

We went through 6 dresses like that. He approved every single one that made me feel dangerous.

At the fourth store, Chanel, something fun happened.

I was trying on shoes. Heels. 5 inches.

I wobbled.

Luca caught me before I fell. One arm around my waist.

“Careful, wife.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He knelt. In the middle of Chanel. In a 3000 dollar suit. And slipped the shoe onto my foot himself.

The whole store went silent.

The salesgirl whispered to another: _Oh my god._

Luca looked up at me. “Walk.”

I did. A little wobble. Then fine.

He stood. “Buy them. All of them.”

“Luca, I can’t walk in—”

“You’ll learn.” His hand on my lower back. “For me.”

My knees actually went weak.

By store 6, we had 18 bags. Guards carrying them.

We stopped for coffee. Outside. Because Luca said: “If I’m going to be photographed, I want them to see my wife drinking coffee like a normal woman. Not hiding.”

We sat. Two coffees.

He took off his sunglasses. I did too.

For a minute, it felt almost normal. Like a real couple.

“This is nice,” I said quietly.

“Yeah,” Luca said, watching me over his cup. “It is.”

Then his phone rang.

He answered. Listened. Face went stone cold.

“Stay here,” he told me. Stood. Walked 10 feet away.

I watched him. Hand in pocket. Jaw tight.

When he came back, he was different.

“What happened?”

“Sophia landed in New York,” he said. “Early.”

My blood went cold. “How early?”

“She’ll be in Chicago tonight.”

Tonight. Not 5 days. Tonight.

“Okay,” I said. Trying to be brave.

Luca looked at me. Then at the crowd. At the cameras still watching us from across the street.

He made a decision.

He pulled me up. Kissed me. Right there. On Michigan Avenue. In front of everyone.

Not a church kiss. Not a show kiss.

A real one. Hand in my hair. Other hand on my waist, pulling me into him.

Cameras went CRAZY. Flashes. Screams.

When he pulled back, I was breathing hard.

“What was that for?” I whispered.

“For them,” he said, nodding to the cameras. “So they tell her you’re not going anywhere.”

“And for you?”

“For me,” he said, voice low, “because I’ve wanted to do that since you put on my shirt.”

I laughed. Shaky. “You’re insane.”

“You married me.”

We left, surrounded by guards and bags and flashes.

But as we got to the SUV, a man stepped too close.

Not paparazzi. Suit. No camera. Hand in his pocket.

Luca saw him before I did.

In one move, he pushed me behind him and had his gun out. Not pointed. Just visible.

“Don’t,” Luca said to the man. One word. Quiet.

The man paled. Backed up. Ran.

“What was that?” I asked, heart racing.

“Nothing,” Luca said. But his arm was tight around me. “Time to go home.”

---

We got home at 4 PM. Bags everywhere.

Luca locked the front door himself. Something he never did.

“Ms. DeLuca,” he barked. “No visitors. No calls. Double the guards.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to me. “You okay?”

“Yeah. That guy just scared me.”

“He should be scared,” Luca said. “He stepped near you.”

He pulled me into the living room. Sat me down on the couch.

“Lila,” he said, kneeling in front of me. “Tonight is going to be bad. Sophia will come. She’ll try to talk to my mother. She’ll try to get to you.”

“Let her try.”

“No.” His hands on my knees. “You will stay in my room tonight. Not yours. Mine. Locked.”

“That’s very possessive.”

“I am possessive,” he said. “You learned that today.”

He leaned forward. Kissed my knee. Then up. Over my jeans.

“Luca—”

“Shh.” His mouth on my leg. “You were perfect today.”

“I almost fell in Chanel.”

“You looked perfect falling.”

I giggled. Then stopped when his hands slid higher.

“Thank you,” I whispered, “for today.”

“Thank me properly,” he said, eyes dark.

“How?”

He stood. Pulled me up with him.

“Wear one of the dresses tonight. For me. When she comes.”

“Which one?”

“The black one. Backless.” He brushed my hair back. “So everyone remembers who you belong to.”

“And who do I belong to?”

He smiled. That dangerous smile.

“Me, Lila. You belong to me.”

And then he kissed me. Soft. Slow. Like we had all the time in the world.

Even though we both knew Sophia was already on her way.