Chapter 2

The Don’s private sitting room was the innermost stage of the Vitiello mansion, a space saturated with rich, dark leather and the cold gleam of bronze sculptures. It was meticulously controlled, elegant, and utterly suffocating. Luna sat rigidly on the edge of a deep velvet settee, every muscle strained, while across from her, Don Dario Vitiello delivered his chilling public masterpiece, the flawless, terrifying fake art of the loving father.

He smiled, a slow, warm expression that precisely crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the severe lines of his face. This was the performance he presented to the world: the benevolent patriarch, the man whose life was supposedly invested in his princess daughter. He enforced this narrative with ruthless efficiency, using the pretense as a perfect shield against any outside scrutiny.

He lifted his hand and reached toward her, slowly, deliberately. Luna’s body tensed, preparing for the familiar moment of contact. Years of surviving his volatile temper had conditioned her: showing fear or flinching was an immediate, dangerous invitation for the harsh response she dreaded.

The Don’s fingers, thick and heavily ringed, settled gently on the back of her hand, resting atop her tightly folded knuckles. The touch was light, yet Luna felt the familiar, bone-deep cold seep into her skin. It was the physical reminder of his absolute, unchallenged ownership. His thumb began a slow, repetitive stroke against the sensitive skin of her hand, a controlling motion that offered no true comfort.

"You are quiet today, cara mia," he murmured, his voice rich and smooth. "But I understand. The preparations are taxing. You are doing so well, my angel. So beautifully cooperative."

He wasn't complimenting her obedience regarding trivial house rules; he was affirming her compliance with the devastating secret: the fixed marriage to Vincenzo Moretti. Every word he spoke reinforced the fact that she was a strategic asset, a fact he kept deeply hidden behind the mask of affection.

She forced her lips into a small, tight half-smile, the only response her silent body would allow. Inside her, a fierce, desperate voice raged against the injustice, but the sound was physically impossible. Her tongue felt leaden, the pressure in her throat intensifying, a sickening, painful chokehold that was the direct result of her paralysis.

The Don sighed contentedly, lifting his hand away. "Good. Obedience is a quality few women possess now. Moretti appreciates old-world values. You will bring him prestige, Luna. And you will bring us stability."

He shifted in his chair, the subject abruptly changing. The affectionate mask remained, but the light in his eyes became cold and calculating. "There are whispers, Luna. Threats. The rats are growing bolder. They are targeting what is mine."

This was the core of his current, consuming anxiety. The threats were escalating, necessitating his frantic need to secure the alliance. He feared the damage to his property, not the damage to his daughter.

A sleek, black phone buzzed silently on a nearby mahogany table. The Don took the call, moving to the window with his back now turned toward Luna. The switch in his persona was instant and chilling. His voice dropped to a low, clipped Italian, stripped of all warmth. He paced, issuing cold, rapid instructions, the raw, controlling fury in his body language palpable. Luna watched him, terrified, tracking the familiar signs of the abusive man who had shaped her trauma.

When he ended the call, he took two deep, controlled breaths, visibly pulling the soft, paternal mask back into place. He turned, the smile instantly reappearing, though his eyes still held a lingering spark of cold rage.

"Nothing, my darling," he lied smoothly. "Just minor business. But it reminds me, we must be vigilant. The world is a dangerous place for my princess." He walked over to a heavy antique cabinet and poured himself a dark amber liquid.

"Rocco is loyal, but his current methods are proving insufficient," the Don continued, swirling the liquor. "The man who is threatening us is powerful. He is patient. He is methodical."

He paused, sipping the drink and looking out the window, his gaze distant. "He is an animal who targets weakness. And you, my Luna, are my treasure. The one he must never touch."

"I need to be certain," the Don stated, his tone shifting from reassurance to raw, unmasked urgency. He paced once more, an unusual display of agitation that showed Luna just how terrified he was of losing control. "I need more than simple loyalty. I need guaranteed results. I need true capability. I need to stabilize my position before the alliance can be finalized."

He walked back to her, his shadow falling over her small, still form. He knelt down, bringing his face close to hers. His eyes were wide, not with love, but with a frantic, desperate calculation. "I am arranging to secure the highest level of protection available. Someone with impeccable credentials. Someone who understands absolute protocol and efficiency. I will entrust my darling daughter to the most capable hands I can find. I am taking steps, Luna. Huge steps, to secure your well-being, for me. Do you understand?"

Luna met his gaze, her own wide and desperate. The pressure in her throat intensified, a painful, physical chokehold that prevented any verbal response. She could only manage a small, submissive nod.

He stood up, his jaw clenched, the mask of affection strained by his internal terror. He walked back to his desk, poured another drink, and stared out the window. His immense shoulders were tense, rigid with unusual, heavy dread. The immense power of Don Vitiello was visibly undermined by fear, a fear that would inevitably be transferred to his vulnerable daughter.