Semua Bab Off Limits: Playing With Fire (Short Stories Collection): Bab 21 - Bab 30

I learned I was to be married on a rainy Thursday afternoon. The kind of rain that turns the sky the color of bruises and makes the world outside feel distant and unreal. Thunder rolled over Milan in long, ominous waves, rattling the windows of my father’s study hard enough to make the crystal decanters tremble on the shelves. The scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp aroma of leather and polished wood. I stood in the doorway, one hand still resting on the brass handle, and immediately sensed that something was wrong. My Father stood behind his massive mahogany desk, staring out at the storm. He looked older than his fifty-eight years. The silver streaking his dark hair seemed more pronounced, and the weight in his shoulders made him appear diminished somehow, as though the burden he carried had finally become too heavy. That was how I knew this conversation would change everything. “Sit down, Alessia.” His voice was steady but i remained standing. “

I woke up in a bed that did not smell like me.It was the first thing I noticed.Not the breathtaking view beyond the floor to the ceiling windows. Not the pale morning light spilling across the floors. Not the oppressive silence of a home so immaculate it looked as though no one truly lived there.It was the scent.Lavender and expensive detergent, crisp and unfamiliar, woven into sheets softer than anything I had ever slept on. The mattress cradled me like a cloud, and the duvet was so light it felt like being wrapped in cool silk.Everything about the room was luxurious.And none of it felt like mine.For a few disoriented seconds, I stared at the high ceiling and tried to remember where I was.Then it came back to me in one merciless rush.The cathedral, vows, applause.Matteo Marchetti.My husband.The word still felt different in my mind, as though it belonged to someone else’s life rather than my own.I rolled onto my back and stared at the empty space beside me.Matteo had not

I was halfway through dessert at Giovanni Marchetti’s estate when the first gunshot shattered that evening. One moment, I was seated beneath a glittering chandelier pretending to enjoy lemon custard while enduring another suffocating family dinner. The next, chaos exploded around me. The Marchetti estate was exactly what I had expected from one of the most powerful families in Italy—lavish, intimidating, and meticulously designed to remind guests who held power. Gold-trimmed walls towered above us, candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, and servants moved silently between the long dining table carrying expensive wine and untouched courses. It should have felt elegant. Instead, it felt like sitting inside a beautifully decorated battlefield. On one side of the table sat members of the Marchetti Family. On the other sat a handful of uneasy allies and business associates pretending not to notice the tension thickening the air. Every conversation carried a hidden edge. And

I woke up alone. For one exquisite, disorienting moment, I smiled into the pillow. It still smelled like Matteo. Cedarwood. Clean linen. The faint trace of his cologne. And something warmer beneath it—something unmistakably his. The scent wrapped around me like the memory of his arms. My skin still carried the imprint of the night before. The tenderness of his hands. The rough honesty in his voice. The single word he had spoken in the darkness with more vulnerability than I had ever heard from him. I closed my eyes and let myself relive it for one dangerous second. The storm outside. The way he had kissed me as if restraint were no longer possible. The steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek as I fell asleep in his arms. Since our arranged marriage began, I had felt something astonishingly close to certainty. Perhaps this marriage was no longer just a contract. Maybe Matteo and I were becoming something real. Then reality returned. The other side of the bed was cold. Not

The first thing I noticed after the rescue was the silence. Beyond the walls of the private suite at Marchetti Family headquarters, the world was still in motion. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Men shouted orders in clipped Italian. Doors opened and closed. Phones rang. Somewhere below us, engines started as the last remnants of the night’s violence were cleaned away. And far beyond the city, thunder rumbled as the storm retreated from Milan. But inside the room, there was only me and Matteo. For the first time since our marriage began, there were no contracts. I sat on the edge of a wide bed wearing one of Matteo’s white shirts. The cotton was soft against my skin and still carried the scent of him—cedar, clean linen, and the quiet comfort that had somehow become home. My hair was damp from the shower. Purple bruises circled my wrists where the ropes had held me captive. But the deeper ache was in my chest. Something more fragile. Hope. Across the room, Matteo stood