Meeting The Future Husband

My heels echoed against the cold marble—a surface my father adored but I loathed. Not for its beauty, but for the way it betrayed even a single drop of blood. A nightmare for the maids, though they deserved far better after all they’d seen. Soon, I would change that. Once I inherited my father’s empire, they would never have to scrub away another man's sins.

Exhaling softly, I ran a manicured hand through my platinum locks, steadying myself. I was heading to my father’s office for a meeting that could alter the balance of power—one contract, one signature, one carefully calculated move. I could not afford a mistake.

A glance downward ensured I was immaculate: tailored beige skirt, crisp white blouse, elegant heels—pristine yet commanding. The gold bracelet circling my wrist gleamed under the light, as did the diamond pendant from Spain—one of my father’s many gifts. A reminder that I was not just his daughter. I was his heir.

At last, I halted before the door. A brief knock. A gruff, expected “Come in.” And then, I stepped inside.

The man seated opposite my father did not turn, yet his presence filled the room. Broad shoulders, streaks of silver woven into dark hair, ink curling over his neck, promising more beneath the fabric of his shirt. Strength, control, danger—it emanated from him like smoke from a slow-burning fire.

Leonardo DeMarcus. The neighboring Don. A man with whom we’d never had conflict—until the rise of new families forced our hands. This contract was necessary. A shield against war, a reinforcement of power. Venice had been ours for eight years. It would remain ours, but only if I sealed this deal.

His smirk cut the air as I met his gaze. “Little Xena, requesting a meeting with me. A bold move. Who’s to say the Cambinos haven’t offered me a better deal already?”

I smiled. Not the kind that softened, but the kind that promised dominance. I reached for the contract my father had prepared—one I had rewritten, refined, and perfected beyond contestation. He wouldn’t say no. He couldn’t.

“Leonardo,” I said smoothly, “do recall that I disarmed six of your seven men and held you hostage for thirty minutes before my father called me back. Bold is hardly the word. We are securing safety—for our families, our legacy—with one simple decision. A marriage.”

His posture shifted, his tattooed fingers sliding over the paper, scanning the lines I had agonized over. I watched him absorb each detail, every loophole I had eliminated. When his piercing blue eyes finally met mine, a slow, sinful smile curved his lips.

I already knew his answer.

“Xena,” he murmured, “you have outdone yourself. I accept—on one condition.”

I tilted my head, platinum waves spilling over my shoulder. “And what would that be, Leonardo?”

“We marry this week. No later.”

The proposal wasn’t unexpected. The marriage itself had been written into the contract, woven seamlessly between the clauses on power, protection, and legacy. But Leonardo’s urgency? That was new.

A week. No later.

It wasn’t hesitation that made me pause—it was calculation. Why rush? What had changed? I studied him, noting the deliberate way he had presented his demand. This wasn’t desperation. It was strategy.

A lesser woman might have questioned his motives. Might have wondered if there was sentiment behind it. I knew better. This was about control. Binding our families before our enemies could maneuver. Securing his stake before I could dictate the pace.

Smart. But if he thought I’d simply yield, he had underestimated me.

Power was about presence, about who dictated the terms even when the outcome was inevitable. And in this room, at this moment, Leonardo had played his hand.

I smiled. Slow. Measured.

“Deal.”

Let him think he had won.

The game had only just begun.