Thorns and Silk

Elana awoke to a knock at the door, sharp and precise—just like everything else in the Moretti mansion. The sun had barely begun to bleed into the sky, and already she felt the weight of the day pressing down on her chest.

She sat up slowly, brushing her tangled hair back.

“Yes?” she called, voice hoarse.

A maid peeked in. “The Don requests your presence in the greenhouse.”

Greenhouse?

The word felt out of place in this world of guns and stone. Still, Elana dressed quickly. If Luca wanted something, he’d get it—on her terms.

She chose a soft blue dress, something that hugged her figure but wasn’t too revealing. A subtle message: She wasn’t here to seduce. She was here to exist on her own damn feet.

The greenhouse was tucked behind the main house, surrounded by tall hedges and marble statues that stared with hollow eyes. When she stepped inside, the warmth and scent of fresh earth wrapped around her like a forgotten memory. Vines curled along glass walls. Roses bloomed in soft reds and ghostly whites.

And there he was.

Luca knelt beside a planter, wearing a simple black shirt with his sleeves rolled up. Dirt smudged his fingers. She stopped in her tracks.

“You garden?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise.

He didn’t look up. “I prune. Keep things alive.”

She snorted. “Fitting, for a man who kills for a living.”

That got his attention.

He rose slowly, wiping his hands on a towel. “You’re angry this morning.”

“I’m always angry,” she replied flatly. “You just choose when to notice.”

He studied her for a long moment, eyes unreadable. “Come here.”

She hesitated.

“I won’t bite,” he added, lips tilting just barely.

Not physically, maybe.

She walked forward, heels clicking on the stone floor until she stood beside him. He gestured to a rose bush, already half-trimmed.

“Cut too little, it overgrows. Cut too much, it dies,” he said. “It’s all about control.”

She picked up the shears. “Control. Of course.”

He stepped behind her, too close. “Try it.”

Elana felt his breath on her neck, the heat of his body like a second skin. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the rose. She cut one stem, then another. Clean. Careful.

“Good,” he said.

She glanced at him, biting back a thousand things she wanted to say.

Instead, she whispered, “Do you always teach your wives how to garden before you break them?”

He blinked slowly. “You’re not broken, Elana. Not even close.”

She turned to face him, the shears still in her hand. “But you plan to, don’t you?”

His smile faded.

“I don’t plan to break you,” he said. “But I won’t let you ruin yourself either.”

His voice was calm, steady, infuriating.

“You don’t get to decide that,” she hissed. “You think marrying me gives you that right?”

“No,” he said, moving closer. “But protecting what’s mine does.”

There it was—that possessive fire again. The thing that made her want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath.

“I’m not a vase,” she said. “You don’t get to put me on a shelf and call that protection.”

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t have to.

His presence surrounded her like a storm.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he said. “But now that it’s done, I won’t let you get yourself killed just to prove a point.”

“I’m not suicidal.”

“You’re impulsive.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

A beat of silence.

Then… he laughed.

Actually laughed.

It was quiet, deep, and completely unexpected. Elana stared at him, stunned.

“You’re insane,” she muttered.

He nodded. “Possibly. But you married me anyway.”

“That was not my choice.”

His laughter died. The lightness disappeared.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She blinked.

Something in his voice had changed. Softer. Regretful? No, not quite. But there was something there—something that almost sounded like… remorse.

“Why did you really agree to the deal?” she asked, heart thudding. “You could’ve taken anything from my father. Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, finally, he said, “Because no one forgets a Romano daughter. Especially not one who fights like hell.”

Her breath caught.

He stepped past her then, back to the roses.

“You can go,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ve made your point this morning.”

Elana turned, forcing her feet to move.

But her heart stayed behind, tangled in thorns and silk.