The Mafia’s heir’s bride
With a swift, almost violent movement, she snatched the pillow away and flipped it over.
Tucked into a small, expertly sewn slit on the underside, concealed by the pillow's own voluminous structure, was a small, leather-bound book.
It was an old journal, the leather worn smooth, the edges soft with age. She ran her thumb over the cover, the scent of aged paper and Luca's subtle cologne filling her senses.
She had dressed this pillow a hundred times.
She had plumped it, thrown it aside during restless nights, and straightened it every morning.
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