Page 4

KLEAH

IT'S THE SECOND NIGHT that I've hardly slept.

Marry me.

Two simple words that had knocked the breath from my lungs. Not a request born of love or even desire, but a strategic solution to an impossible problem. A way to shield me using his name, his reputation, his power.

I'd asked for time, and he'd given it—until morning. Well, morning has arrived, and with it the weight of a decision that will alter my life irrevocably.

Outside my window, the ocean stretches endlessly toward the horizon. The safe house is nothing like I'd imagined—not the stark, utilitarian fortress I'd expected but a beautiful coastal retreat with breathtaking views. The contrast between its elegance and the ugly reality of my situation feels jarring.

I dress in the clothes Gabriele provided—soft leggings and a comfortable sweater, both in my size. The thoughtfulness of this small detail catches me off guard. How does a man this dangerous, this controlled, notice something as mundane as clothing sizes?

The scent of coffee draws me from my room. I follow it to the kitchen, where Gabriele stands at the window, his back to me, a mug in his hand as he gazes out at the ocean. He's changed into dark jeans and a fresh henley that does nothing to disguise the muscular breadth of his shoulders.

He turns as I enter, as if he sensed my presence before I made a sound. There's something different in his expression this morning—a vulnerability quickly masked by his usual controlled facade.

"Did you sleep?" he asks, his voice low and rough.

"Not much," I admit. "You?"

He doesn't answer, just reaches for another mug and pours coffee for me. The domestic gesture seems incongruous with the dangerous aura that surrounds him.

"I've been thinking..."

"And?" No pressure in his tone, just careful neutrality.

"I have questions first." I move to the kitchen island, setting my mug down with deliberate care. "This marriage you're proposing. What exactly would it mean?"

He considers for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Legally, it would establish you as my wife, entitled to my protection and resources. In the world we're dealing with, it would mark you as claimed—no longer just Viktor Biancardi's sister, but Gabriele Bronzetti's bride. That status creates complications for anyone planning to harm you."

"Complications," I repeat. "Not impossibilities."

"Nothing is impossible for someone determined enough. But marriage raises the stakes considerably. An attack on you becomes an attack on me, my honor, my position. Few would risk that lightly."

I take a sip of coffee, the warmth of it spreading through my chest. "And practically? Day to day? What would this marriage look like?"

His dark eyes study me over the rim of his cup. "Whatever we decide it should look like. There are appearances to maintain in certain circles, yes. But behind closed doors, the parameters are ours to set."

"Parameters," I echo. "You make it sound like a business arrangement."

"Isn't that what you'd prefer?"

The question catches me off guard. I should say yes immediately. Of course that's what I'd prefer—a marriage in name only, a protective shield with no messy emotions or physical entanglements. And yet, something holds me back.

"I don't know what I prefer," I say helplessly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was leading a normal, ordinary life. Then you suddenly show up, telling me I'm in danger because I'm related to a mafia —-" I break off when I notice his lips tighten. "What is it?"

"It's nothing."

"It looks something."

"It's the word you use," he says reluctantly. "Mafia ."

I'm fascinated with the way this term actually makes him wince.

"We do not call ourselves that. We prefer something else."

"Oh, so like, boy bands are now like boy—-" I stop myself in time when I realize how close I am to having my neck snapped by the man currently glaring at me. Right. Comparing big, bad wolves like Gabriele to boy bands was not exactly the smartest thing to say, was it?

I clear my throat. "So, um, what's the more politically correct term for, um—-"

Mob bosses? Organized crime lords? Outlaw?

"—-people in your world?"

His lips tighten again, and I don't know what to make of this—

"Famiglia. "

—until I hear it for myself. I even remember him using it in passing in the past, but it's only now, with the strained silence between us, that the weight this word carries becomes all too clear.

Famiglia means family. And in their world, blood is a good enough reason to kill, a good enough reason to die for. Famiglia also means when one claims a wife, it's an unbreakable bond, for better or for worse, till death do them part.

"I know it's a lot to process."

That might be the understatement of the century.

"Can I...can I take a walk outside?" I ask awkwardly. I just need some time and space—

"I'll join you."

—from him, but of course I can't tell him that now.

I follow Gabriele through glass doors onto a stone terrace that wraps around the side of the house. Comfortable seating is arranged to maximize the view, and the ocean stretches endlessly before us, waves catching the morning light.

Gabriele keeps a careful distance between us as we stand at the railing, the breeze carrying the scent of salt and earth. He seems more relaxed out here, as if the open space eases something tight within him.

"Do you have any idea who wants me dead?"

"There's a good probability it's Valentina, your father's younger sister."

"And my aunt."

"Another unfortunate thing about our world? Money may also be thicker than blood."

I take a deep breath, facing the reality of my situation with as much clarity as I can muster. My old life is gone—that much is certain. Whether I accept his proposal or not, I can never go back to being just Kleah Martell, artisan with a quiet shop and a simple life.

The question is what comes next.

"I need something from you," I say without turning.

"Name it."

"Honesty. Complete honesty. No matter how ugly or difficult the truth might be." I turn to face him. "I can't navigate this world if I'm working with partial information. I need to know what I'm facing, always."

He studies me, his expression unreadable. "That level of honesty comes with its own dangers."

"I'll take my chances."

"Very well." He inclines his head slightly. "Honesty, then. In return, I require obedience in matters of security. Without question, without hesitation."

The word 'obedience' bristles against my independent nature, but I understand the necessity. In matters of life and death, there's no time for debate.

"Agreed," I say, "but only for security. Nothing else."

"Nothing else," he confirms.

We stand there, the wind and waves the only sound between us, this strange bargain hanging in the air.

"I'll marry you," I say finally, the words both surrender and declaration. "But you...you can't—you won't touch me unless I ask."

GAbrIELE

Her words are clear, firm—a boundary drawn in the sand between us. I should be relieved. Complications of desire have no place in what must be a strategic alliance. And yet, something in me resists the limitation, chafes against it.

Not because I want to force her—the very thought is repulsive—but because she speaks as if proximity to me is something to be endured rather than desired.

Pride. A foolish reaction when survival is at stake.

"Agreed," I say, my voice betraying none of my inner thoughts. "Your body is your own. Always."

Relief softens her features, and I wonder what she expected from me. What stories has she heard about men like me? What fears keep her awake in the marble and silk sanctuary I've provided?

"I'll have papers drawn up today," I tell her. "The ceremony can be private, discreet. Just the necessary legal witnesses."

She nods, her gaze returning to the dark expanse of water below us. The morning light catches in her hair, turning the brown strands copper at the edges. She looks ethereal, untouchable—and yet so very human in her vulnerability.

"What happens after?" she asks, her voice almost lost in the sound of waves. "After we're married. Where do we go? What do we do?"

"We divide our time between secure properties—here, my villa in Sicily, perhaps my apartment in London when necessary. You'll learn security protocols, how to recognize threats, who can be trusted and who cannot." I move to stand beside her at the railing, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "When the time is right, we make strategic appearances in circles where your status as my wife will strengthen your position and deter potential threats."

"How long?" The question is barely a whisper. "How long will this last?"

"Until your position is secure. Until all threats are neutralized."

"Years, then," she says, not a question but a realization.

"Most likely."

She only nods, her profile delicate against the morning sky. I find myself studying the curve of her cheek, the soft fullness of her lips, the stubborn set of her jaw. She is lovely in a quiet, unassuming way—nothing like the calculatedly beautiful women who typically populate my world.

"I should hate this," she says suddenly. "Being forced into marriage, having my life stolen from me because of blood I didn't choose and connections I never made."

"You should," I agree.

"But I don't. Not entirely." She turns to look at me, her hazel eyes reflecting sunlight. "I'm terrified. I'm angry. I'm grieving for the life I thought I'd have. But hatred requires energy I can't spare right now."

Her honesty is disarming. Most people in her position would rage or collapse, fighting futilely against immovable reality or surrendering to despair. Instead, she assesses, adapts, acknowledges the complexity of her own emotions.

"You're stronger than you realize," I say, the observation escaping before I can measure its wisdom.

A small, sad smile touches her lips. "Necessity, not strength."

"They're often the same."

We fall silent again, the rhythm of the waves below creating a hypnotic backdrop to our unlikely negotiation. This woman beside me—this stranger who will soon bear my name—carries herself with a dignity that belies the chaos of her situation.

"I should have the final paperwork by midday," I tell her. "A judge I trust will perform the ceremony whenever you're ready."

"Tomorrow," she says, decision crystallizing in her voice. "If we're doing this, let's not drag it out."

She disappears inside before I can respond, leaving me alone with the wind and waves and the unsettling feeling that this arrangement may be more complicated than I anticipated.

I remain on the terrace long after she's gone, staring out at the dark water below. In my world, marriages are typically strategic alliances even when they purport to be love matches. Power wed to power, wealth to wealth, obligation to obligation. The honesty of our arrangement should be refreshing, uncomplicated.

Yet something about her quiet dignity, her clear-eyed approach to an impossible situation, makes me uneasy. As if the parameters we've so carefully established might prove insufficient to contain whatever grows between us.

I pull out my phone, sending encryption-secured messages to set tomorrow's plans in motion. Legal documents, witnesses, security arrangements—all the practical elements of our impending union. When I'm finished, I reach into my pocket and withdraw a small box that I've carried since yesterday.

The ring inside is simple but exquisite—a cushion-cut diamond flanked by smaller stones, set in platinum. Not ostentatious, but unmistakably valuable. The kind of ring that makes a statement without needing to shout.

I hadn't planned to offer it to her. The marriage we're arranging requires no such trappings of romance or sentimentality. A simple band would suffice for legal purposes, for the appearance of legitimacy.

And yet, I found myself selecting this particular ring from my family's collection—one of the few treasures I kept from my mother when I left Sicily behind. Something about its quiet elegance reminded me of Kleah—understated but resilient, complex beneath a seemingly simple surface.

Foolish sentimentality. A weakness I can ill afford.

I snap the box closed and return it to my pocket. Tomorrow she becomes my wife—a contractual arrangement born of necessity and obligation. No more, no less.

The wind shifts, carrying the salt spray higher against the cliffs. In the distance, a light appears on the horizon—a ship, perhaps, navigating through darkness toward some unseen harbor. Its journey reminds me of our own: charting a course through treacherous waters, seeking safe passage through forces beyond our control.

I turn to go inside, making one final sweep of the property's perimeter on security cameras before retiring. She's already in her room, door closed, light visible beneath it. I resist the urge to check on her—a strange, unfamiliar instinct that has more to do with reassurance than protection.

In my own room, I draft the final version of our agreement, detailing the terms we've discussed. Protection for obedience in security matters. My resources in exchange for her public cooperation. Privacy and autonomy in personal matters for both parties. Duration contingent on threat level rather than calendar dates. Provisions for dissolution once safety is assured.

When I finish, I print two copies and seal them in an envelope. Traditional contracts are typically signed in ink, perhaps notarized. But for this agreement, something more binding feels appropriate.

From my briefcase, I withdraw the seal I noticed in her shop yesterday—the Celtic knot pattern that caught my attention. I'd purchased it after she left to prepare for our departure, a small acknowledgment of the craft that defines her.

I heat a stick of deep red wax, holding it over the envelope's closure until melted wax pools on the paper. Then I press her seal into it—a perfect impression, binding our agreement in the material of her chosen craft.

She signs the contract. I seal it in wax.