Chapter 13 -NADIA
1378 Words
The private jet did not feel like a plane. It felt like a sealed sanctuary suspended in motion, gliding through the stratosphere at thirty thousand feet while the rest of the world slept below us. Outside the oval window beside me, the Atlantic stretched endlessly in darkness, an inky void punctured only by distant stars. There was no horizon, no sense of direction, only forward momentum.
Inside, everything was deliberate. Soft amber lighting traced the edges of the cabin. Plush leather seats absorbed sound. The air smelled faintly of espresso, polished wood, and Luca’s cologne, something smoky and grounded that clung to the space as if he had marked it without trying.
Luca sat across from me in a wide armchair, his posture relaxed but alert. One long leg was crossed over the other, polished shoes reflecting the cabin lights. A tablet rested in his hands, the screen casting a pale glow across his sharp features. He looked absorbed in whatever he was reading, yet I knew better.
He was always aware.
I had learned that the hard way.
Between us sat a small glass table. On it, a crystal tumbler filled with vintage red wine waited untouched. I had not reached for it since the attendant poured it an hour ago. My mind was too loud for alcohol, replaying every word he had said at the gala, every promise he had made with dangerous ease.
I will build one.
A hospital.
Not a metaphor. Not a distraction. A real place where I could still be myself.
“You are overthinking it,” Luca said without lifting his eyes from the screen.
I exhaled slowly. “You don’t know that.”
He glanced up then, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “I do. Your pulse has been elevated since we left New York. You have not slept. You have not touched the wine. And you have been staring at the same point in the window for eleven minutes.”
“I like efficiency,” I said. “So do you.”
A corner of his mouth curved. “Touché.”
I finally looked at him fully. In the dim cabin lighting, the contrast of his eyes was almost unreal. One a pale, clear blue like shallow water, the other a deep green edged with gold. The heterochromia gave him an unsettling presence, as if he were always seeing two versions of the world at once.
“It is a significant promise to make,” I said carefully, “to someone you barely know.”
He set the tablet aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I know the hands that saved my life,” he said. “I know what they are capable of. I know they do not belong folded in a sitting room while men argue over blood and territory.”
My throat tightened before I could stop it.
“If I forced you into silence,” he continued, his voice low but steady, “you would resent me. If you resented me, you would look for a way out. And if you looked for a way out, you would become a liability to yourself.”
“You are very confident,” I said.
“I am very realistic,” he replied. “Also, I am not interested in a trophy. I am interested in survival.”
Something like a laugh escaped me, quiet and sharp. “So letting me operate is an act of self preservation.”
“Entirely,” he said without hesitation. “You are most dangerous when you are caged. I would rather you be focused, fulfilled, and difficult, than bored and plotting.”
“That is disturbingly honest.”
“I do not lie when it is unnecessary.”
I studied him for a moment. “And if I decide that Milan is not enough. If I want to go back to Chicago. To teach. To consult. To work internationally.”
Luca did not answer immediately. He stood instead, moving smoothly toward the built in cabinet along the wall. He poured himself a drink, something amber and strong, then turned back to me.
“You will not be a prisoner,” he said. “There will be security concerns, yes. There will be rules. But I will not cut off your hands simply because we are married.”
Married.
The word still felt unreal.
“I did not agree to this marriage,” I reminded him.
“No,” he said quietly. “But you chose the path.”
I leaned back into my seat, the leather cool against my spine. “You talk like someone who expects cooperation.”
“I expect negotiation,” he corrected. “Hatred is inefficient. Fear is unreliable. Respect lasts longer.”
“And affection?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His gaze sharpened slightly. “Affection complicates things.”
“That did not answer the question.”
He took a slow sip of his drink. “Affection can be earned,” he said. “But it cannot be demanded. I will not ask you to love me. I am not foolish.”
The honesty of that landed harder than any romantic declaration could have.
Silence settled between us, thick but not uncomfortable. The hum of the engines filled the space, steady and constant, like a heartbeat.
“When we land,” Luca said, “you will stay at the villa in Lake Como. It is quieter. Safer. The wedding preparations will happen in Milan, but the villa gives us breathing room.”
“Safe from whom,” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“The Valenti,” he said. “The Sokolovs. And certain members of my own council who believe aligning with the Snows weakens us.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “That sounds reassuring.”
“You are not wrong to be wary,” he said. “You are entering a world where power shifts quickly. Where people smile while planning your downfall. Where even a misplaced word can become a weapon.”
“I have spent a decade in trauma centers,” I replied evenly. “I have watched people die because someone hesitated. I have argued with surgeons who thought arrogance was a substitute for skill. Your council does not frighten me.”
Something flickered in his expression. Approval, maybe. Pride.
“I suspected as much,” he said. “Still, Milan plays by different rules. There, precision matters. Appearances matter. You will be watched.”
“I am always watched,” I said.
He nodded once. “Then you will adapt.”
He moved toward me then, not looming, not threatening. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out a folded cashmere blanket, placing it gently over my legs. The gesture caught me off guard.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “You will need your strength.”
I looked up at him. “You speak as if this is a war.”
“It is,” he said. “It is simply one disguised as a marriage.”
“And what are we in that war,” I asked. “Allies?”
He hesitated, just for a moment. “We do not have to be enemies,” he said. “That is my compromise.”
I searched his face, looking for deception, manipulation, cruelty. I found none of it. What I found instead was resolve.
“For the record,” I said quietly, “I do not hate you.”
His gaze held mine. “Good. Hatred would make this much harder.”
He turned toward the front of the cabin, stopping briefly. “The sun will rise over Italy in four hours. When we land, Dr. Snow stays on this plane. When you walk down those stairs, you will be the future Lady De Santis.”
I pulled the blanket closer around myself, the warmth sinking deep into my bones.
I was flying toward a life I never planned, with a man I was supposed to fear.
But as sleep finally claimed me, I realized something unsettling and undeniable.
For the first time in ten years, I was not running.
I was moving forward.
Toward a battlefield I had chosen for myself.
- Writer
