Chapter Four: The Price of a Stranger

Father closed his eyes briefly and I saw the relief in his eyes, I had just handed away a future I’d spent years imagining, and my father was relieved.

Mother touched my arm, I stepped away before she could hug me not because I didn’t love her because if she hugged me, I might cry.

After several seconds, she asked the question I couldn’t bring myself to. “When does she meet him?”

Father looked at me. “Tomorrow.”

I actually laughed. “Tomorrow?”

“He requested it.”

“Of course he did.”

“Fiona—”

“Anything else?”

Father frowned. “What?”

“Does he want to choose my dress too? Inspect my teeth? Should I arrive with a medical certificate proving I’m suitable breeding stock?”

“That’s enough.”

“Is it?”

His face hardened and mine did too.

For several seconds, we stared at each other, then I smiled sweetly.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Fiona.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

I walked toward the door, Mother called my name, I stopped but didn’t turn.

“I love you,” she said.

My throat tightened. “I know.”

And I did, that was the problem.

By the time I reached my bedroom, anger had replaced whatever threatened to become tears, I locked the door then leaned against it. “Luca fucking Ricci.”

The name sounded obnoxious and I hated it already, I kicked off my shoes, crossed the room and dropped onto my bed, my phone sat on the nightstand.

For a few seconds, I stared at it, then picked it up because If I was apparently marrying a stranger, the least I could do was find out which particular psychopath my father had selected.

I opened G****e and typed: Luca Ricci and pressed search, the results appeared instantly, apparently my future husband was very popular with the internet.

LUCA RICCI — HOTELIER AND INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS MOGUL

I rolled my eyes. “Of course you are.”

I opened the first article and there he was in a black suit, white shirt. no tie, dark hair and his piercing steel-grey eyes, he had a face that would have been unfairly attractive if it weren’t attached to a man who apparently acquired wives during business negotiations.

I zoomed in then immediately hated myself and zoomed back out, the article described him as a private but influential entrepreneur, another called him a visionary hotelier, the one that stuck was, THE RECLUSIVE BILLIONAIRE BEHIND THE RICCI LUXURY EMPIRE.

I snorted. “Reclusive.” I guess that was one word for it, I kept scrolling seeing photographs of hotels, ribbon-cutting ceremonies, charity dinners, Luca shaking hands with politicians, Luca standing beside celebrities, Luca opening some ridiculous hotel where a single night probably cost more than most people’s monthly salaries.

The internet loved him calling him a philanthropist. “Philanthropist?”

I knew better, everyone in my world knew better g****e could call him whatever it wanted, my father had not gone across the city tonight begging a hotelier to save our family, men did not lower their voices when discussing Luca Ricci because he owned beautiful buildings, two armed guards weren’t outside my bedroom window because of disagreements over hotel reservations.

Luca Ricci was a Don, a killer, a man who had inherited blood and money and somehow turned both into an empire.

I opened another photograph, this one wasn’t from a business event he was getting out of a black car and someone had caught him looking directly toward the camera.

He didn’t wear a smile, he didn’t wear his fake polished businessman expression, just cold eyes and a face that seemed irritated by the existence of whoever had photographed him.

I stared longer than I should have because he was handsome, annoyingly so and it was not a soft handsome, there was nothing soft about him.

He looked like the sort of man mothers warned daughters about before remembering their daughters were Romanos and therefore already surrounded by worse.

I clicked another article but there was still nothing useful, no interviews about his personal life, no wife, no public engagement but several women photographed beside him over the years.

One appeared more than once, she was a dark-haired, beauty and was very elegant, Isabella Moretti.

I frowned because the caption called her a longtime family friend. “Sure.”

I kept scrolling, there were photographs of them at galas, a charity event, a Moretti wedding, one photograph showed Isabella’s hand resting against Luca’s chest while he leaned down to hear something she was saying.

They looked comfortable, too comfortable and I immediately caught myself. “What do I care?”

But apparently, I wasn’t only marrying a murderer, I might also be walking directly into whatever unfinished mess existed between him and a beautiful brunette who looked like she’d been born knowing which fork to use at a royal dinner.

I dropped my phone against my chest, I was meeting him tomorrow, twenty-four hours ago, I’d been thinking about whether I wanted to visit Greece or Spain first, I’d been halfway through a novel, arguing with Viviana about stealing one of my dresses and planning a life.

Now? I was engaged, not engaged, promised, somehow that word felt worse, I turned my head toward the mirror across the room the woman staring back at me looked exactly the same.

Nothing had changed but somehow everything had changed, I picked up my phone one last time and I wondered whether he’d chosen me personally or whether Father had simply offered a daughter and my name had been the most convenient.

I didn’t know which possibility offended me more.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Luca Ricci.” My voice sounded strangely loud in the empty room. “You may be getting a wife.”

I stared at his photograph. “But you’re not getting an obedient one.”

Somewhere across the city was a man I had never met, a man the internet called a hotelier, a man my father feared enough to give him his daughter who had agreed to protect my family only after making me his price.

And tomorrow, I was going to look that monster in the eyes and find out exactly what kind of man had decided he wanted me for a wife.