The Don’s Mansion

The gates creaked open with a slow, ominous groan, revealing the Moretti estate—more fortress than home. Cold stone walls loomed ahead, soaked in shadows despite the afternoon sun. Elana sat stiffly in the back of the black car, her hands clenched into fists on her lap. The ring her father forced onto her finger that morning felt like a shackle.

A cruel symbol of her cage.

She wasn’t wearing white. Luca hadn’t even shown up for the “wedding.” It was nothing but a contract—cold, lifeless, and terrifyingly binding. And now she was being dropped off like a package, her body traded to erase a debt she didn’t owe.

The driver didn’t speak. No one did. Not until the car stopped and the door was opened for her.

“Elana Romano,” a low voice said.

She looked up sharply, and there he was.

Luca Moretti

Tall, dark, and as dangerously composed as the rumors claimed. Dressed in a tailored black suit, he stood at the top of the stone steps, hands clasped behind his back like a king awaiting a prisoner. His eyes—frostbitten gray—met hers without a flicker of warmth.

She stepped out, spine straight despite the tremble crawling up her spine.

“Don Moretti,” she greeted flatly.

A flicker passed through his expression—approval? amusement? She couldn’t tell.

“This way,” he said, turning without offering his hand.

No welcome. No pleasantries. Just command.

The foyer of the mansion was cavernous and silent, the air cool against her skin. A grand staircase curved upward, chandeliers dripping crystal above her, but nothing felt alive. No family portraits. No warmth.

He led her down a long hallway, stopping at an ornate double door.

“This is your room,” Luca said, opening it for her. “You’re not a prisoner, Elana. But don’t mistake that for freedom.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

His lips twitched—close to a smile, but not quite. “You’ll learn to appreciate the difference.”

She stepped inside. The room was lavish—too much, almost mocking. Rich velvet drapes, a king-sized bed, fresh flowers arranged with care. As if they were playing house in a nightmare.

“I’ll have dinner sent up. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Elana turned to face him. “Talk? About what? How you own me now?”

His jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. “I don’t own you. Yet.”

The door clicked shut behind him before she could scream.

⸻

Elana stood at the window for hours. Watching the sun dip below the horizon, she counted the seconds until night swallowed the estate whole. Somewhere in the darkness, she imagined her old life still existed—friends, freedom, music, late-night laughter. Things that felt a lifetime away now.

Dinner arrived—steak, wine, silence. She didn’t touch it.

She didn’t cry either.

She wouldn’t give Luca De Rossi that satisfaction.

⸻

The next morning, a knock echoed through her room. A maid entered quietly, laying out clothes.

“The Don requested your presence for breakfast,” the girl said, not meeting her eyes.

Elana changed slowly, deliberately, choosing the outfit that gave her the most armor—a silk blouse and tailored pants, her hair pulled back with precision. She looked like a woman who could hold her own.

Even if she felt like she was drowning.

Downstairs, Luca was already seated at the head of a long table. His eyes met hers briefly before returning to his coffee.

“You slept well?” he asked.

She sat across from him, her every movement measured. “I’ve had better first nights of marriage.”

He let out a low chuckle. “I don’t doubt that.”

She watched him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Why me?”

Luca raised a brow. “You’re asking why I accepted a Romano daughter as payment?”

“I’m asking why you didn’t just kill my father and be done with it.”

His gaze sharpened. “Because that would’ve been easy. And painless.”

She stared at him. “So you chose this instead. A punishment.”

“For him, yes. But for you… that depends.”

“On what?” she whispered.

“On how well you survive in my world.”

The words sent a chill through her. He wasn’t threatening her—he was preparing her. Warning her. This life was more than power games and cold luxury. It was blood, silence, control.

And he wasn’t going to hold her hand through it.

⸻

Days passed like ghosts.

Luca was always busy—meetings, phone calls, men in dark suits whispering things she couldn’t hear. But he was always watching her. Every move she made. Every word she said. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But his presence was a constant pressure, an invisible chain around her throat.

And still… Elana pushed back.

She refused to eat alone.

She asked questions.

She walked the halls like she belonged there.

And slowly, she saw something shift in him.

Respect?

Curiosity?

She couldn’t tell.

But something in the way his eyes lingered on her—like he wasn’t sure if she was a threat or a temptation—made her heart beat faster.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Because if she started to care—even a little—it would ruin her.

He was her enemy.

Her captor.

Her husband.

And he hadn’t even begun to break her yet.