Married To The Devil I Hate

Chapter 11

When I wake up, the bed is freezing.

I reach out instinctively across the sheets, my hand grasping at empty space. The heavy, lingering scent of gunpowder is permanently stamped into the pillows, but Luca is completely gone.

I roll onto my back and stare at the vaulted ceiling, my mind instantly bombarded by the memories of last night. The ambush. The shattering glass. The feeling of Luca’s massive body pressing me into the floorboards, taking the brunt of the attack just to keep me safe. And then, the study. The blood. The terrifying, soul-stripping intensity of his kiss.

My fingers tremble as I bring them up to trace my lower lip.

I had kissed the Devil of Chicago. Worse, I had wanted to. The absolute hatred that had been my shield since the moment my father signed that peace treaty is fracturing, leaving me exposed to something far more dangerous. I am no longer just a captive in a cage. I am a participant in this twisted, violent game.

I throw the heavy quilt off and step onto the cold floor. I cannot hide in this room forever.

I walk into the massive walk in closet, bypassing the dresses Luca had prepared for me. Today, I don’t want to feel like a porcelain doll.

I dig through the drawers until I find a pair of fitted black trousers and a soft, dark charcoal turtleneck sweater. It is practical, unassuming, and entirely armor-like. I pull my hair back into a tight braid at the nape of my neck and slide my feet into a pair of flat, quiet boots.

When I open the heavy double doors of the master suite.

The estate has completely transformed overnight. There are twice as many guards patrolling the corridors. Men in dark tactical gear walk with lethal, purposeful strides, their eyes sharp and their hands resting firmly on the weapons holstered at their hips.

Marco is standing directly outside my door. He looks exhausted, dark circles bruised under his eyes, but his posture is rigid.

When I step out, he doesn't just stare straight ahead like a mindless drone. He turns to fully face me. For the first time since I arrived at the De Santis estate, the massive, stone-faced guard dips his chin in a deep, respectful nod.

"Signora," Marco says, his gruff voice carrying a new, distinct layer of deference. "The boss ordered me to ensure you stay in the residential wing today. The grounds are locked down."

"Where is he, Marco?" I ask, my voice completely steady.

Marco hesitates, his jaw tightening. "He is in the east wing. But he left strict orders—"

"I don't care about his orders," I interrupt, stepping past him. "I'm going to see my husband."

Marco could easily stop me. He is twice my size and armed to the teeth. But to my absolute shock, he simply falls into step right behind me, acting as my shadow as I navigate the winding, heavily guarded halls of the estate. The respect I earned last night by not falling apart during the ambush is palpable. I didn't scream. I didn't run. I patched up their boss. In their brutal, violent world, that means something.

As we approach the east wing, the heavy silence of the house is broken by the sound of deep, furious voices echoing from behind a set of reinforced steel doors.

Marco steps forward and pushes the heavy doors open for me.

The room is a massive, windowless bunker buried deep in the center of the estate. The walls are lined with digital maps, surveillance feeds, and blueprints of the city. A long, slate-gray table dominates the center of the room, completely covered in satellite photos and scattered weapons.

A dozen of Luca’s highest-ranking capos are gathered around the table. The air in the room is thick with tension and the sharp smell of stale coffee and impending violence.

And at the head of the table stands Luca.

He is wearing a fresh, pitch-black button-down shirt. His left sleeve is rolled up just below the elbow, revealing the stark white medical tape securing the thick bandage I applied last night. His dark hair is messy, and a shadow of rough stubble lines his sharp jaw. He looks absolutely terrifying—a ruthless king orchestrating a slaughter.

"I don't give a f**k if he's hiding in a church," Luca snarls, slamming his uninjured fist down onto the slate table with a force that makes the capos flinch. "Lorenzo Costa signed his own death warrant the second he ordered his men to open fire on that motorcade. You will tear the south side apart brick by brick until you find him. You burn his warehouses. You sink his shipments. You leave absolutely nothing standing."

"Boss, the Commission won't like a full-scale retaliation," an older, scarred capo argues nervously. "If we hit Costa this hard, it could trigger a war with the other families."

Luca’s eyes flash with murderous, unhinged rage. "Let them come. I will slaughter every single rat in Chicago who questions my authority. Costa tried to kill my wife. The only response is total annihilation. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Boss," the men chorus immediately, the sheer authority rolling off Luca forcing them all into submission.

"Get to work," Luca commands dismissively.

The capos turn to leave, freezing in their tracks when they realize I am standing just inside the doorway. The brutal, violent men stare at me, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and unease. I am invading their sanctuary.

Luca’s head snaps up. The murderous fury in his expression instantly shifts, his eyes locking onto me across the long room. He doesn't look angry that I disobeyed his orders to stay in the residential wing. Instead, a dark, possessive heat floods his gaze, completely softening the lines of his face.

He nods once to the men. "Out."

The capos scramble past me, practically running out of the room until only Marco remains by the door. Marco steps outside, pulling the heavy steel doors shut behind him, leaving Luca and me entirely alone in the suffocating silence of the room.

I stay rooted to my spot by the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had just witnessed the Devil of Chicago ordering a m******e. The sheer, terrifying reality of who he is and what he does is spread out on the table in front of him.

Luca walks slowly around the long slate table, his eyes never leaving mine. He stops a few feet away, his massive frame towering over me in the dimly lit bunker.

"You are supposed to be in our suite," he says. His voice is a low, raspy rumble that sends an involuntary shiver skipping down my spine.

"I couldn't stay in that room," I answer, forcing myself to hold his intense gaze. "Not after everything that happened. Not with the whole house on lockdown."

Luca reaches out, his large, calloused hand gently catching the side of my neck. His thumb slowly strokes the pulse point rapidly beating right beneath my jaw. His touch is a terrifying contrast to the violent orders he was just barking at his men.

"You shouldn't have heard that," he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my lips before rising back to mine. "This room is ugly, Sophia. This side of my world is entirely built on blood. I want to keep you away from it."

"It's too late for that," I whisper, leaning slightly into his warm palm despite my brain screaming at me to pull away. "I was in the car, Luca. I am already in the blood."

Luca’s jaw clenches tight. He takes a step closer, completely erasing the space between us. His massive chest brushes against my dark sweater, his heat radiating through the thick fabric.

"Lorenzo Costa retaliated because I humiliated him at the gala," Luca states quietly, his voice laced with a heavy, dangerous guilt. "He thought I was distracted by my new bride. He thought he could take me off the board and claim my territory."

"And what happens now?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly.

"Now, I erase his entire bloodline from the map," Luca says simply, as if he is talking about the weather. "No one touches what belongs to me and lives to see the sunrise."

He says it with such absolute, unwavering certainty that it completely terrifies me. He isn't just fighting a turf war; he is burning the city down because another man dared to put me in danger.

"You're going to start a massive war," I say, my eyes searching his hard face. "The other families—my father—they will use this as an excuse to turn on you."

Luca’s lips curve into a dark, arrogant smirk. He slides his hand around to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling firmly in the loose hairs at the base of my braid. He tilts my head back, forcing me to look directly up at him.

"Let your father try," Luca growls, his eyes blazing with absolute dominance. "Let them all try. They are cowards, Sophia. They hide behind treaties and politics. I am the only monster in this city who isn't afraid of the dark. And as long as you are standing by my side, I will crush every single one of them."

He doesn't kiss me. He doesn't push the boundaries that shattered between us last night. Instead, he just holds me there, asserting his complete, terrifying control over the situation and over me.

"I need you to understand something," Luca continues, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

"You are not collateral anymore, Sophia. You are not a pawn your father traded away for peace. You are my wife. You are the Queen of this syndicate."

"I don't know how to be that," I admit, the vulnerability cracking my voice.

"You already are," he replies instantly, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "You didn't break last night. You didn't cower. You looked death right in the face and you survived. My men see it. Marco sees it. They respect you because they know you are strong enough to walk through my fire."

He slowly releases his grip on my neck, though his hand lingers on my shoulder, a heavy, comforting weight.

"I have to leave the estate for a few hours," Luca says, the cold like tone returning to his raspy voice. "I have to oversee the strike on Costa's compound personally. I need to make an example out of him."

Panic immediately flares in my chest, hot and completely irrational. "You're injured," I protest, my eyes dropping to the white bandage visible beneath his rolled-up sleeve. "You shouldn't be going out there."

Luca’s eyes soften, a genuine, terrifyingly real emotion flickering in his freezing blue depths. The fact that I am worried about him—the man I swore to hate—is not lost on either of us.

"I'll come back to you," Luca promises softly, stepping back toward the steel table to grab his heavy black overcoat. He slides his arms into the sleeves, wincing slightly as the fabric pulls against his wound, but he quickly masks the pain.

He stops at the door, looking back at me standing alone in the center of his war room.

"Lock the doors to the suite. Do not let anyone inside unless it is Rosa or Marco," Luca orders, his voice completely unyielding. "I will be back by midnight."

He doesn't wait for my response. He turns and walks out of the bunker, disappearing into the dark. I stand in the suffocating silence of the room, staring at the satellite maps and the scattered blueprints, my heart completely at war with itself.

The Devil of Chicago just went out to burn the world down in my name, and god help me, I want him to come back safe.