Married To The Devil I Hate

Chapter 5

The sunlight hitting my face is the first thing that wakes me. It’s thin and weak, filtered through the thick, gray clouds hanging over Chicago, but it’s enough to pull me out of a restless, terrifying sleep. For a split second, I’m confused the sheets are too smooth, the room is too large, and the air smells like cedarwood and cold iron.

Then, the memories of yesterday slam into me like a physical weight.

The wedding. The church. The vow. The Devil.

I sit up, pulling the heavy black quilt up to my chest. My heart is already racing, a frantic little bird trapped in my ribcage. I look toward the corner of the room, my eyes searching for the leather couch.

It’s empty.

The blanket is folded neatly at the foot of the sofa, and the room is deathly quiet. A cold knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach. Did he leave? Is he out there somewhere, plotting his next move against my father? Or is he lying in wait for me to step out of this room?

I slowly slide out of the bed, the cold floor biting into my bare feet. I’m still wearing the wedding dress. It’s wrinkled and twisted from my fitful sleep, the lace scratched and uncomfortable against my skin. I feel like a prisoner in a costume, a living testament to my own destruction.

I head toward the en suite bathroom, my footsteps making no sound on the plush rug. The bathroom is a palace of white and gold fixtures, looking like something out of a high end design magazine. I splash freezing water on my face, staring at the girl in the mirror.

My hair is a tangled mess of curls, and my eyes look hollow and tired. There’s a smear of dried mascara under one eye. I look like a wreck, but honestly, it’s a miracle I’m still standing at all. I quickly wash my face and pin my hair up into a messy bun, trying to bring some order to the chaos. I don't bother with makeup. If I’m going to be a captive, I might as well look like one.

I step out of the bedroom and into the hallway. The house is eerily quiet. It’s a massive, cold, sprawling place that feels more like a tomb than a home. As I walk toward the top of the grand staircase, I notice the silence isn’t absolute. There’s a low, rhythmic sound coming from downstairs the sharp, metallic sound of something hitting concrete.

I cautiously peer over the banister.

Below, in the foyer, three men in dark suits are standing with their hands behind their backs. They are scanning the front doors, their posture rigid. My stomach drops. Guards. Everywhere. I turn and head toward the opposite wing, hoping to find a kitchen, a library, anything that isn't a hallway filled with men who would probably kill me if I gave them a reason.

I find a staircase leading to the ground floor and descend, my heart hammering. I follow the sound of footsteps and voices until I reach the kitchen a cavernous, professional grade space with stainless steel counters and a massive island.

Rosa, the housekeeper from yesterday, is standing at the stove. She turns as I enter, her eyes flicking over my disheveled wedding dress with a look of mild disapproval.

"Good morning, Signora," she says, her voice flat. "Breakfast is at eight. You are late."

"I... I wasn't told," I stammer, feeling like a child being scolded.

"The boss doesn't like tardiness," she says, turning back to the stove. She pours a cup of black coffee and sets it on the island in front of me. "Drink. It will help your head."

I take the cup, my fingers trembling slightly. "Where is he?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "Where is Luca?"

Rosa doesn't turn around. She just keeps stirring a pot of something that smells like rosemary and garlic. "He is in the training room. He does not like to be interrupted before his morning routine."

Training room? The thought of Luca De Santis training for violence makes my blood run cold.

"I'm not hungry," I say, pushing the coffee away.

"Eat," Rosa says, her voice suddenly sharp. She turns around, and for a second, her cold mask slips, showing a flicker of pity. "It is not a request, signora. If you do not eat, the boss will think I am not taking care of his wife. And he is... not a patient man when it comes to his property."

His property. The words taste like ash. I sit on a stool at the island and pick up a piece of dry toast. I force myself to chew, my throat tight.

"Is he always this... intense?" I ask, hoping to pry even the smallest bit of information out of her.

Rosa stops cleaning the counter and looks at me, her eyes unreadable. "He is what he needs to be. He has had to carry the weight of this family since he was twenty. It hardens a man. Especially when he has to clean up the messes left by people like your father."

The comment is a direct hit. I look down at my plate, my hands clenching into fists under the counter. "My father is a monster," I whisper.

"Perhaps," Rosa replies, returning to her work.

"But you are no longer a Romano. You are a De Santis. Remember that, and you might find that life here isn't the hell you seem to think it is."

I don't answer. I don't think I can.

After choking down a few bites, I slide off the stool. "I want to walk in the garden," I say, my voice firmer.

Rosa points toward a set of French doors on the far side of the kitchen. "The perimeter is locked. Do not try to leave the grounds. The guards have orders to stop anyone, including you."

I walk toward the doors and push them open. A blast of cool, damp air hits me. The backyard is massive, a sprawling landscape of manicured hedges, stone pathways, and dark, brooding trees that border the deep forest. It’s beautiful, in a haunting, isolated way.

I walk down the path, my dress dragging in the damp grass. I feel like a ghost haunting my own life. I’m a prisoner of the most dangerous man in Chicago. I start to wonder if I could climb the wall. If I could just run into the woods and disappear.

"I wouldn't," a voice says from behind me.

I jump, spinning around.

Standing a few feet away is a man who looks enough like Luca to be a mirror image, but with one major difference: he’s smiling. His black hair is styled in a trendy, effortless way, and his hazel eyes are dancing with amusement. He’s dressed in a comfortable cashmere sweater and jeans, looking like he just stepped out of a fashion catalog.

"Matteo," I breathe, recognizing him from the wedding.

"In the flesh," he says, giving me a playful bow.

"And you are the mysterious, reluctant bride. I’m Matteo, the younger, slightly less homicidal brother."

"Slightly?" I ask, a dry laugh escaping my lips.

"Okay, maybe significantly less homicidal," he jokes, walking over to stand a few feet away from me. He stops at a respectful distance, his hands tucked into his pockets. "I’m sorry about the guards. They’re a bit overzealous. Luca has them on high alert today because of the... transition."

"Transition," I echo. "Is that what we're calling a forced marriage now?"

Matteo’s smile fades, replaced by a look of genuine empathy. "I know it looks bad, Sophia. Believe me. Luca isn't the easiest man to be around, even on his best days. But he’s not... he’s not the villain you think he is. Not entirely."

"He killed my father's men," I say, my voice trembling. "He turned my entire life into a bargaining chip."

"He did what he had to do to protect his own," Matteo says, his voice losing its playful edge.

"This life isn't black and white. Your father sold you out, Sophia. He made the deal. My brother is just the man who won the hand."

"That doesn't make it right."

"No," Matteo agrees. "It doesn't. But you're here now. And if you’re smart, you’ll learn how to navigate the storm instead of trying to outrun it."

I look at him, searching his face for a lie. He seems honest enough, or at least as honest as anyone in this family can be. "Why are you talking to me?"

"Because someone needs to," he says, shrugging.

"And I don't like seeing my brother's wife look like she’s about to shatter into a million pieces. It’s bad for the upholstery."

A small, genuine laugh escapes me. It’s the first one in days.

"You're weird," I say.

"I prefer 'charming,'" he corrects, winking. "Come on. Let’s get you inside before the guards decide you’re an escape risk and tackle you into the mud. That would be a tragedy for that dress."

We start walking back toward the house. "Is he really in the training room?" I ask, glancing toward the wing of the house I haven't explored yet.

"Oh, yeah," Matteo says. "He’s probably destroying a punching bag right now. It’s his way of dealing with... everything."

"Everything?"

"The war. The stress. The fact that he’s suddenly responsible for a wife he didn't necessarily plan on having, even if he did orchestrate the deal."

I stop walking, my pulse spiking. "He orchestrated it? He told my father to give me to him?"

Matteo stops, his face tightening. He realizes he said too much. "Look, I probably shouldn't have mentioned that. Forget I said anything. Please."

"Did he?" I persist, my heart pounding. "Did he demand me?"

Matteo sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Luca is a strategist, Sophia. He plays the long game. When the treaty talks started, he gave your father a list of conditions. You were at the top of it. He needed a leverage point. And he... he had his reasons."

My head is spinning. It wasn't just a random requirement by the De Santis family. It was Luca. He specifically chose me.

Why?

"I have to go," I say, turning away from him.

"Sophia, wait—"

I don't wait. I turn and run toward the house, my heart screaming. I don't go back to the kitchen. I head for the hallway that leads to the west wing, ignoring the stares of the guards. I find a heavy door that looks different from the others, the sound of rhythmic thuds echoing from behind it.

I don't even knock. I just push the door open and step inside.

The training room is a cavernous space filled with weights, punching bags, and a boxing ring. And in the center, shirtless and drenched in sweat, is Luca.

He’s wearing black boxing shorts, his back turned to me as he lands a vicious, bone shaking hook onto a heavy bag. Every muscle in his back is coiled and defined, his skin glistening with sweat in the dim light. He’s a terrifying, lethal machine.

He stops mid punch, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto mine through the reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

"Get out," he growls, his voice a raw, dangerous command.

"Why me?" I ask, my voice shaking as I walk further into the room. "Why did you ask for me? You could have demanded land. You could have demanded money. Why did you demand a person?"

Luca turns around slowly. He looks like a predator cornered in his den, his blue eyes burning with an intense, unreadable fire. He takes a slow step toward me, his movements fluid and feline.

"You want to know why, Sophia?" he says, his voice low and vibrating with a strange, dark intensity. "You think you’re just a pawn. You think you’re just a name on a piece of paper."

He stops inches from me, his presence overwhelming. I have to tilt my head back to look into his face. He’s panting, the air around him thick with the heat of his exertion.

"I didn't choose you because of your father," he says, his hand reaching out to catch a strand of my hair, his fingers lingering against my cheek. "I chose you because I’ve been watching you for years. I knew exactly who you were the moment I saw you in that ballroom."

My breath hitches. "What are you talking about?"

"You think you’re a victim, little wife," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "But you’re the only thing in this whole, rotten city that hasn't been touched by the dirt. You’re the only thing that’s still real."

He leans in, his face so close I can feel his heartbeat against my chest.

"And I’m going to make sure it stays that way."

I stare at him, paralyzed, as he turns back to the punching bag and lands a final, brutal blow that echoes like a gunshot through the room. I stand there, trembling, realizing that I don't just have a husband. I have a captor who sees me as his own private, perfect piece of reality.

And that is a thousand times more dangerous.