CHAPTER 2

I woke up because of sunlight. For a few seconds, I forgot where I was. The unfamiliar ceiling above me made me sit upright. Then everything came rushing back.

The debt.

My father's office.

The contract.

Vincent.

My husband.

I looked around the enormous bedroom.

Everything was elegant—too elegant.

The bed alone was bigger than the one in my room at home. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked perfectly trimmed gardens, while dark curtains framed the morning light.

There was no sound.

No familiar voices.

No mother calling me for breakfast.

Nothing.

Just silence.

I pushed the blanket aside and walked toward the window.

The Moretti estate was already awake.

Men in black suits were stationed around the property. Two black SUVs were parked near the main entrance. A few men stood near the gates, speaking into radios.

I frowned.

What kind of house needed this much security?

Then I remembered whose house this was.

Vincent Moretti.

Mafia boss. I stepped away from the window.

"Great."

One night.

I had spent exactly one night in the Moretti estate.

And already, I wanted to go home. A knock sounded.

Before I could answer, the door opened.

A woman in her fifties entered.

"Good morning, Mrs. Moretti." I almost winced.

"Please don't call me that." She looked surprised.

"That is what Mr. Moretti instructed us to call you."

"Of course he did." She smiled politely.

"My name is Teresa. I manage the household." I nodded.

"Nice to meet you."

"Breakfast is ready."

"I'm not hungry." She hesitated.

"Mr. Moretti said you are to eat breakfast with him."

I turned around.

"He said what?"

"Breakfast. Together." I stared at her.

"Tell Mr. Moretti I'll eat later." Teresa looked nervous.

"Mrs. Moretti..."

"Elara."

She smiled faintly.

"Elara, Mr. Moretti doesn't like being kept waiting."

I folded my arms.

"And I don't like being ordered around."

Teresa's smile disappeared. I sighed.

"Fine. I'll be down in five minutes."

She nodded and left. I closed the door.

"Welcome to married life, Elara."

---

The dining room was enormous.

A long table could easily accommodate twenty people.

Yet only two chairs were occupied.

Mine.

And Vincent's.

He sat at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet.

Black shirt.

Black trousers.

Sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

He looked irritatingly composed.

As if he hadn't turned my entire world upside down the night before.

I pulled out the chair.

"Good morning." He didn't look up.

"You're late." I glanced at the clock.

"By three minutes."

"Four."

I rolled my eyes.

"Sorry. Next time, I'll run." He finally looked at me.

"Don't be sarcastic."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"And you're controlling."

A faint smile appeared on his lips.

"At least we're learning about each other."

I sat down. A maid placed breakfast in front of me.

I looked at the food.

Then at Vincent.

"Do you always have this many people watching you eat?"

"They're staff."

"Some of them are armed."

"They're security."

"Same thing." He returned his attention to the tablet.

I picked up my fork.

For several minutes, we ate in silence.

It was uncomfortable.

Not because of the silence itself.

Because I could feel him watching me whenever I wasn't looking.

Finally, I put down my fork. "Why me?"

His eyes lifted. "You've asked that before."

"And you never gave me a real answer."

"I did."

"No. You gave me a sentence." He leaned back.

"What answer are you looking for?"

"The truth." His expression became unreadable.

"You wouldn't like it."

"Try me." A long pause.

Then he said,

"You'll know when the time comes." I stared at him.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

I pushed my plate away.

"Fine." I stood.

"Where are you going?"

"My room."

"Sit." I stopped.

There it was again. That tone. An order.

I slowly turned around.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I haven't dismissed you." I laughed softly.

"Dismissed me?" I walked back toward the table.

"Mr. Moretti, I'm your wife, not your employee."

His gaze sharpened. "You signed a contract."

"And so did you." He said nothing.

I leaned slightly toward him.

"You don't own me." His jaw tightened.

For the first time, I saw something crack through that calm expression. Anger.

Then it disappeared.

"You're right." I blinked.

"You're my wife."

He paused. "Not my property."

The words caught me off guard.

He picked up his coffee.

"But don't mistake that for freedom."

My stomach tightened.

"What does that mean?"

"You'll understand." I hated those words.

"You keep saying that."

"Because you keep asking questions before you're ready for the answers." I stared at him.

"What exactly are you hiding?"

His eyes met mine.

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Everything in this house concerns me."

"Not everything."

I narrowed my eyes. He stood.

"Finish your breakfast."

"Where are you going?"

"Work."

"Mafia business?" He stopped.

Slowly, he looked back at me.

"Careful, Elara." There was no smile now.

"Some subjects aren't meant to be discussed at the breakfast table." I held his gaze.

"Noted." He walked away.

I watched him leave. Then I whispered,

"Jerk." From somewhere behind me, I heard a quiet cough. I turned. Teresa was standing near the doorway, trying not to smile.

I raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Moretti."

"Just Elara."

"Elara." She smiled.

Then she lowered her voice.

"First time someone has spoken to Mr. Moretti like that."

I looked toward the doorway.

"Really?" She nodded.

"Most people are afraid of him."

I looked back at her.

"Should I be?"

Teresa's smile disappeared.

"I really think you should, Elara"

That answer was immediate.

---

Later that morning, I explored the estate.

Or tried to. There were too many restricted areas.

Every hallway seemed to have a security guard.

Every door had a lock. I eventually found a library.

It was beautiful.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the walls.

I walked between them, running my fingers over the spines. At the back of the room, I noticed something strange.

A locked glass cabinet.

Inside were photographs.

Old photographs.

One caught my attention.

A younger Vincent stood beside an older man.

His father, perhaps.

But there was something else.

A woman.

And a little boy.

I leaned closer.

I didn't know why, but seeing Vincent's younger face made him seem almost human. Then I noticed the dates.

The photograph was taken years ago.

There were several photographs. The same woman.

The same boy. But in the later pictures...

They were gone. Only Vincent and the older man remained.

I frowned.

"What happened to them?" I whispered to myself.

"Curious?" A familiar voice made me froze in my place.

I turned around. Vincent stood at the doorway.

My heart jumped.

"I didn't hear you."

"I noticed." He walked inside.

His eyes went directly to the cabinet.

Then back to me.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I was looking around."

"Why?"

"Because I'm living here." His expression remained cold.

"That doesn't give you access to everything."

I glanced at the photographs.

"Who are they?"

His face changed.

Barely.

But I saw it.

Pain. Then anger.

"Leave." I stared at him.

"I only asked—"

"Leave, Elara." His voice was sharper this time.

I stepped back. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then I looked at him carefully.

"You don't have to be afraid of telling me."

His eyes hardened.

"I'm not afraid."

"Then why do you look angry?" He moved closer.

"Because there are things in this world you know nothing about."

"Then tell me."

He stopped in front of me. "You wouldn't survive knowing everything about me." I swallowed.

"Maybe I don't need to know everything."

I glanced at the photographs.

"Maybe I just want to know who you were before you became Vincent Moretti."

His expression went completely still.

Then he whispered,

"That man is dead."

He walked past me.

I turned. "Vincent."

He stopped.

I hesitated.

"Who were they?" He didn't turn around.

"My family." My chest tightened.

Before I could ask another question, he walked out.

I remained standing in the middle of the library.

For the first time since entering this house, I saw something beneath the ruthless mafia boss.

A wound.

One he had buried so deeply that even asking about it seemed dangerous. And suddenly, I understood something.

Vincent Moretti wasn't simply hiding secrets from me.

He was protecting them.

The question was...

From whom?

And why did I have the feeling that somehow—

I was connected to all of it?