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Chapter Three

Nora

“ A re you out of your damned mind?” My mother’s shrill voice cuts through the room, startling me awake. The door slams against the wall, and I wince at the sudden intrusion of light as she yanks open the heavy curtain, blinding me in the process.

“What?” I hiss, squinting against the brightness, my mind sluggishly trying to catch up. I blink toward the alarm clock. It’s only eight a.m.—way too early for my mother to be out of her room. I’d normally be up by now, but I fell asleep only two hours ago, my thoughts consumed by the disaster that was my decision.

I picked Rafaele Lucchese—Il Mietitore.

“I’m talking to you, Nora!” she snaps, her voice bringing me out of my daze.

I force my eyes back to her, taking in the sight of her standing there in her robe, hands on her hips, radiating anger. Her face is flushed, eyes narrowed with the kind of fury she usually reserves for drunken outbursts, but this is different—sharper, more focused.

“How did you find out?” I ask, my voice groggy, still trying to process the situation. It’s clearly not my dad who told her. I doubt he’s said a word since last night; he was silent the whole drive home. When we finally arrived, he kissed the top of my head, but it felt like a gesture of sorrow rather than comfort.

“Does it matter?” she hisses, advancing on me like a storm. “You had one job—to choose the lesser of two evils. And what do you do? You pick The Reaper! Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

I push myself up in bed, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. “I’m not trying to get myself killed, Mother.”

“Why?” she insists again, her voice sharper now, and I know she won’t let me go until I give her an answer.

I sigh and move to the side, rubbing my temples. “Leo Lucchese is dull.” And I suspect as empty as a shell.

She scoffs, crossing her arms. “He’s very good-looking, and yes, he’s probably an idiot, but at least he’s not cruel.” Her lips purse as if she’s just tasted something bitter. “And his looks…”

I frown at that, the memory of yesterday’s dinner flashing through my mind. I had plenty of time to observe Rafaele, and I don’t see why she’s so harsh about his appearance. He may not have his brother’s obvious charm and classical good looks, but Rafaele is striking in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

With his tall, broad-shouldered frame and dark, unruly hair that always seems on the verge of falling into his intense, deep-set eyes, he has a presence that commands attention. His strong jawline and slightly crooked nose add character to his face, giving him a rugged, almost predatory allure. His eyes—so dark you can’t see where the iris ends and the pupil begins—are like two black holes, pulling you in, making it difficult to look away. There’s a raw power in his features, something primal and deeply unsettling yet captivating all the same.

He may not be what most would call traditionally handsome, but there’s no denying his magnetism. It’s as if every part of him is designed to exude authority and command respect—a man who is both feared and admired, a man who has earned the name Il Mietitore.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with his looks,” I reply quietly, more to myself than to her. But she catches it, her eyes narrowing.

“You think you can handle a man like Rafaele Lucchese? He’s not just a husband, Nora—he’s a force of nature. And once he has you in his grasp, he won’t let go.”

I meet her gaze, feeling the weight of her words but also the weight of my own decision. “Maybe that’s exactly what I need, Mother. Someone who won’t let go.”

She stares at me, stunned into silence, and for the first time, I see a glimpse of something other than anger in her eyes—fear, perhaps, or maybe just a sad kind of understanding.

I let out a sigh. “You told me to pick a man I could never love.” I shrug. “I listened.”

“You—” She shakes her head, then glances at the clock on my nightstand.

“It’s too early for a drink, Mother.”

Her eyes narrow at the corners. “With a daughter like you? No, probably not.”

I stand up and wince, shifting my weight from one hip to the other. My mother doesn’t miss the movement. It may seem irrelevant to most people, but not to her. Her face softens, her irritation giving way to something more like concern.

“I’m always a little stiff in the morning. It’s nothing,” I tell her as I slide on my slippers.

“You made the wrong choice,” she says, her voice losing some of its sharpness.

“For you, I made the wrong choice. But it’s pointless to discuss it anymore. I picked, and they agreed.” Despite Capo Lucchese being so obviously annoyed about it. “There’s no turning back.”

She doesn’t respond… just stands there, lost in thought. I begin making my bed, even though I know the staff can handle it. The motions are good for me, and they help ground me. I continue as though she’s no longer in the room, as if she’s already disappeared into her own world. I prepare my bathrobe and towel and am about to head to the bathroom to shower when she speaks again.

“Maybe we can ask Uncle Vittorio to make you disappear.”

I freeze, turning slowly, almost unable to believe what she’s just said. Uncle Vittorio, known as the Shadow , is a master at making people disappear—whether alive or not. They call him an eraser, and he’s my mother’s brother, someone she hasn’t spoken to in years.

For a moment, I see something in her that I rarely do—an actual glimpse of her love for me. It’s fleeting, buried under layers of bitterness and regret, but it’s there, clear as day.

“Leave Vittorio where he is.” I’ve never met him, but during one of my mother’s drunken rants, she told me about her brother—the one who didn’t want her to marry my father. She didn’t listen, and it cost them both. After that, he disappeared into the mountains, making himself vanish from the world. She has a contact, probably the only one who does, but she swore that even death wouldn’t make her call him. I guess that doesn’t include me.

“Maybe we can tell him everything about you. He probably won’t want to marry you then.”

Her words sting deep, not because she means to hurt me, but because she genuinely believes I’m substandard as a wife.

Despite the tears burning at the back of my eyes, I stand up straighter. “Well, I guess that makes me a fitting wife for The Reaper then—a societal reject. But I won’t say anything because we both know it would mean Father tricked them, and that would likely lead to his death. That’s something you might celebrate, but I can’t stand by his grave knowing I’m responsible.” I pause, my voice softening. “Now, Mother, I would kindly ask you to leave my room. I followed your advice. I picked the man I’ll never love and who will never love me back.”

Without waiting for her response, I lock myself in the bathroom. I trail my fingers under the dark circles beneath my eyes. My pale skin is unforgiving after sleepless nights, showing every ounce of weariness to the world.

I know I’m not the prettiest—too short, too round, too weak. And yes, by my mother’s standards, I’m substandard. But how does it even matter? I could be the most beautiful woman in the world, and it wouldn’t make Rafaele Lucchese love me. Desire me? Maybe. But I’m not sure being desired by a man so cruel is anything to wish for.

I shake my head, pushing away the creeping thoughts of what life with Rafaele might entail. There’s no use dwelling on it. I made my choice, and now I have to live with it. I might as well face it on my own terms.

I shower quickly and move to the closet, running my fingers along the row of clothes. I’ve always loved bright colors, a quiet rebellion against the dark, oppressive tones that dominate mafia society. When I’m out in public, expected to play the role of the obedient daughter, I wear black, gray, or dark blue, blending into the shadows. But today, in this moment that’s just for me, I reach for a dress that makes me feel like myself—a royal-blue one that hugs my curves just enough to be flattering without drawing too much attention.

I pair it with yellow tights, the color vibrant and cheerful. The combination is bold, maybe even a little outrageous for someone in my position, but it’s me. A small snort escapes me as I pull the dress over my head and smooth it down, imagining the look of horror on Lucchese’s face if he saw me dressed like this. A dash of color in his otherwise dark world.

I keep the brightness for the days I’m home or out for things not mafia-related. I hate drawing attention within the famiglia. There’s always that fear that if I attract too much attention, people will start to notice things about me—maybe even question me. I’m not ashamed of my struggles; no, I’m actually proud of who I am. But I don’t want to become “poor Nora Falcone.”

My father never forces me to attend anything that isn’t absolutely mandatory, and when I do, I try to fade into the background as much as possible. But my eyes—a bright, piercing blue—stand out against my porcelain skin, enough to make people see me, to attract attention whether I want it or not.

I brush my hair, letting it fall naturally, and apply just a touch of makeup—enough to cover the dark circles but not enough to draw notice. I slip on a pair of simple flats, my feet sinking into the soft leather. As I take one last look at myself, I feel a strange mix of defiance and resignation. This is who I am, flaws and all. Whether Rafaele Lucchese sees that or not, whether he cares or not, doesn’t change a thing.

I will be the perfect dark wife in public, but in my home, in my sanctuary, I’ll be the splash of color I want to be.

I make my way down to the kitchen, the familiar scents of breakfast wafting through the air, comforting in their normalcy. But as I step through the doorway, the atmosphere shifts. Donna is there, her usually warm expression clouded with concern, and Gino stands by the counter, his face a mask of worry. They both turn to look at me, their eyes heavy with unspoken thoughts.

I force a smile, though it feels brittle on my lips, and take a seat at the table. “I guess you heard I’ll soon be the sottocapo’s wife,” I say, trying to inject some lightness into my voice.

Donna’s hands tremble slightly as she places a cup of tea in front of me. “We heard, yes,” she says softly, her voice laced with sorrow.

Gino clears his throat, but the words seem to stick, and he just nods, his eyes full of worry. They’ve known me my whole life, seen me grow up, and now they’re watching me step into a world they wish I could avoid.

“I’ll be fine,” I reassure them, even though I’m not sure I believe it myself. “It’s my choice.”

Donna sits down beside me, her hand reaching out to cover mine. “We know, Nora, but it doesn’t make it any easier. He’s… well, he’s not an easy man.”

“He’s not a monster either,” I reply, though I’m not entirely certain of that. “And I’m stronger than you think. I’ll manage.”

Gino’s frown deepens, and he finally speaks. “Just… promise us you’ll be careful. We know you’re strong, but that man… he’s dangerous, Nora. We’ve all heard the stories.”

“I will be,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with more confidence than I feel. “I promise. I’ll be careful.”

They exchange a glance, still not convinced, but they don’t push further. Donna squeezes my hand, and Gino nods again, worry still etched on his face.

“Okay, time for me to go tour the grounds. I’ll see you later, little one.”

Just as I finish my toast, the butler enters the kitchen, his expression neutral but his eyes giving away a hint of discomfort. “Ms. Falcone, there’s someone here to see you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Who is it?”

“Mr. Rafaele Lucchese,” the butler replies, his voice steady. “He asked me to inform you that your fiancé is waiting in the hall.”

The air in the room seems to thicken, and I can sense the tension that ripples through Donna at the mention of Rafaele’s name.

I nod slowly, standing up. “Thank you. I’ll go see him now.”

Donna’s eyes are full of concern as she lets go of my hand. “We’re all here for you, Nora. Whatever happens, remember that.”

I manage a small, reassuring smile. “I know. Thank you.”

I step into the hall, and there he is, dressed all in black, as always. The aura of power that surrounds him is almost tangible, filling the space and making the air feel heavier. Rafaele Lucchese stands there, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as they take in my appearance. I see his eyebrow raise, a subtle gesture, but enough to make me painfully aware of how colorful my outfit is in contrast to his somber attire.

I feel a rush of self-consciousness and take a step back. “Oh, give me a minute. I’ll go change.”

“Why?” he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind. “This is good.”

I pause, surprised by his response. My hands start to wring together, a nervous habit I can’t quite shake. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Lucchese?”

“Please, Nora,” he says, his tone lightly mocking. “We will be married soon. I think ‘Rafaele’ will do just fine.”

I do my best to keep my face neutral despite the slight discomfort his words cause. “Very well, Rafaele .”

I can’t help the edge in my voice as I say his name, and I notice the corners of his lips lift in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He’s enjoying this, I realize—enjoying my discomfort, my attempt to navigate this new and unsettling dynamic between us.

“What can I do for you?” I ask again, trying to regain some composure.

He watches me for a moment, weighing his words, then finally speaks. “I’ve taken the morning off. I’m taking you shopping for your engagement ring. It will allow us to get to know each other a little.”

His statement is so matter-of-fact that it takes me a moment to process it. Shopping for my engagement ring with a man like Rafaele Lucchese—someone who has barely shown a hint of interest toward me—feels surreal. This feels too real, too fast, just… too much.

I nod, trying to appear composed. “Of course. That sounds… appropriate.”

His smile widens just a fraction, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Good. Let’s go.”

“Oh, you want to go now, now?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Is there a reason you can’t?”

So many. “Well, no.” I glance down at my outfit again. “Just give me ten minutes; I’ll change.”

He shakes his head. “Again, why? Are you uncomfortable?”

I frown, momentarily caught off guard. Does he actually care? “No, it’s just not very capo’s-wife appropriate.”

He shrugs. “Who’s to say what’s ‘capo’s wife’ appropriate? And it’s a good thing I’m not a capo.”

“Yet.”

His lips twitch into a half smile. “Yet.” He gestures toward the door, and I glance around one more time, searching for an excuse.

“You’re safe, Nora. I will not hurt you.” There’s a certain edge in his voice now, a hint of exasperation.

“No, it’s—” I sigh. “It’s nothing. Let me just grab my bag and coat.”

He waits by the door as I do so, watching silently as I tell Donna where I’m going so she can inform my father. When I step outside, a tall man is waiting by the car, his build solid and muscular, with a shaved head and a hard, chiseled face that looks like it’s seen more than its fair share of fights. His presence exudes a calm but unmistakable strength, as if he’s always ready for anything.

Rafaele surprises me by stopping beside him. “Nora, this is Paolo, my right-hand man.”

“Moonlighting as best friend on occasion,” Paolo says with a smile, making me smile in return as he takes my hand to kiss the back of it.

“A position I may have to rethink,” Rafaele states, his tone flat. “Let go of her hand, and let’s go.”

Rafaele opens the car door for me and settles beside me in the back as Paolo takes the driver’s seat.

“Harry Winston,” Rafaele tells Paolo.

“Why?” I can’t help but ask.

“Isn’t he the king of diamonds?” Rafaele asks, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t it the place all girls dream of going?”

If only you knew what I dream of, I think, but only shake my head. “Why not go to Lorenzo Bellini Gioiellieri? It’s tradition.”

Rafaele meets Paolo’s eyes in the rearview mirror as if they’re having a silent conversation.

“Are you sure? It’s not the same quality,” Rafaele says, his voice laced with doubt.

I shrug. “It’s more than enough for me.”

He meets Paolo’s eyes again, and when Paolo winks at him, Rafaele glares back. “Fine, Lorenzo it is.”

“Yesterday took everyone by surprise,” Rafaele says in a low tone meant only for me.

“What did?” I ask, curious.

He glances my way briefly before focusing ahead again. “Your choice.”

“Oh,” I say with a shrug. You're not the only one , I admit to myself.

“Why? Why pick me, I mean?” he presses.

“You’re the future capo. How could I not?”

He studies me for a moment, doubt passing across his face. I brace myself for further argument, but he simply nods and turns back to the front.

The rest of the drive to Lorenzo Bellini Gioiellieri is smooth but tense. Rafaele remains silent, his presence filling the car with an aura of controlled power. Paolo hums softly to the radio as the cityscape rushes past the windows, the tension between us palpable but unspoken.

When we arrive, the store’s modest facade belies the treasures it holds within. Lorenzo Bellini Gioiellieri isn’t the most glamorous shop, but it’s steeped in tradition, a family business known for its craftsmanship and the personal touch that its larger competitors lack.

Rafaele opens the door for me, and as we enter, a little bell above the door jingles. The few patrons in the store look up. It’s not crowded, but there’s a sense of intimacy here that makes every action feel observed, every word heard.

The air is rich with the scent of polished wood and the faint, lingering fragrance of old-world cologne. The shop is quiet, save for the soft ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. A few display cases line the walls, showcasing intricate jewelry that sparkles under the wam, inviting light.

Rafaele moves silently beside me, his presence filling the small space like a shadow. He doesn’t need to say anything—just being here, watching me, is enough to remind me of who he is and the power he holds. The way he commands the room without even trying makes it impossible to forget that I’ll soon be bound to him.

He turns his back to the store, examining a display case filled with engagement rings. I can see his reflection in the glass—calm, composed, but always assessing.

Just as I’m about to join him, an older man with a portly frame and gray hair comes bustling out from the back, his face lighting up as he spots me. His exuberance is infectious, and I can’t help but smile.

“Norina!” he exclaims, his voice full of warmth as he hurries over. “Look at you, so grown up! Are you here to see your boyfriend?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rafaele’s back stiffen at the word boyfriend , a subtle but unmistakable reaction.

I open my mouth to correct the old man, but before I can, a woman’s voice calls from the back, “Mara, Norina is here to see Bobby. Did you like your birthday present?”

I nod and smile, the tension easing slightly as a small dog—a scruffy little terrier with bright eyes—comes trotting out from behind the counter. Bobby, a familiar and beloved sight, has been here for six years, and he’s always been my little friend.

I kneel down, reaching out to stroke him as he nuzzles into my hand. “Who’s the most beautiful boy in the world? Yes, you are!” I say as Bobby tries his absolute best to lick my face.

Rafaele’s gaze shoots to the dog, then back to me. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something almost soft, but it’s gone before I can be sure. He’s good at this, at hiding behind that cool mask. But I wonder, for just a moment, if there’s more underneath.

The old man, who had been so jovial just moments ago, notices Rafaele standing nearby. His eyes widen slightly, and his laughter dies as all the good humor drains from his face, replaced by a wary, respectful caution.

“Mr. Lucchese,” he says, straightening up and nodding in acknowledgment, his voice a bit more formal now.

Rafaele turns, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange. I can feel the shift in the atmosphere, the weight of his attention altering the dynamic.

I stand up slowly, trying to ease the tension. “I used to come here with my mother,” I explain, glancing at Rafaele. “She pretends to be allergic to dogs, but I’ve always loved them. I would beg her to bring me here just so I could spend time with the dogs in the shop. Bobby has been here for years, and he’s become my little friend,” I add as the dog jumps up, asking for my full attention back.

Rafaele’s gaze softens slightly, though he says nothing. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—understanding, perhaps, or maybe just a hint of curiosity.

The old man clears his throat, trying to regain some of his earlier warmth. “Norina has always had a kind heart,” he says, offering me a small smile. “Bobby looks forward to her visits.”

I smile down at Bobby, who’s still wagging his tail happily at my feet.

“Yes,” Rafaele says, his voice steady as he looks at me for a moment before turning toward Mr. Bellini. “We’re here to look at your engagement rings. Norina and I are engaged.”

The way he says my nickname feels deliberate, almost as if he’s testing the waters of familiarity. There’s a subtle edge to it, a reminder that he’s not entirely comfortable with the softness it implies. A cold knot forms in my stomach—will this be how our marriage feels? Will he drain away all gentleness, leaving only the sharp, unyielding edges?

“Oh! Congratulations!” Mr. Bellini exclaims, though his eyes betray a hint of concern. It’s a look that doesn’t escape Rafaele’s notice; his expression darkens, his gaze sharpening in response.

Without thinking, I reach out and grip Rafaele’s hand, forcing a smile toward Mr. Bellini. “Thank you. I can’t wait.”

Rafaele’s eyes drop to our joined hands, and his face relaxes slightly. He tilts his head to the side—a gesture I’m beginning to recognize as his way of processing something unexpected, a moment of quiet contemplation or perhaps puzzlement.

For a heartbeat, the tension eases, and I feel the warmth of his hand in mine. It’s not unpleasant. “Show us what you have, Mr. Bellini,” Rafaele says, his tone softening just a touch though his hand remains firmly in mine.

Mr. Bellini nods, still visibly cautious, and gestures toward the display case. “Of course, right this way.”

“Can you show us these?” Rafaele says, pointing at a display filled with large, ostentatious rings. I can’t help but grimace as Mr. Bellini carefully places them on the counter.

“Great choice. These are all four carats or above,” Mr. Bellini says with enthusiasm.

“Something’s wrong?” Rafaele asks, and I realize too late that I’m still grimacing. His voice drops to a whisper, meant only for me. “Rethinking the union?” He lets go of my hand, the sudden absence of his touch colder than I expected.

“I—no, it’s fine if these are the ones you like,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral, though the thought of wearing something so extravagant feels overwhelming.

“It’s—” Rafaele starts to speak but then stops, letting out a sigh. He turns to Mr. Bellini. “Can you give us a moment?”

The old man hesitates, his gaze shifting nervously between the rings on the counter and Rafaele. He’s clearly torn about leaving such valuable items unsupervised.

“Is it a problem, Signore Bellini?” Rafaele’s voice takes on an edge, a quiet menace that sends a shiver down my spine, and I’m grateful it’s not directed at me.

“N-no, of course not,” Mr. Bellini stammers. “I’ll be in the back. Just ring the bell when you need me.”

Rafaele nods, his eyes never leaving me. I can feel his dark gaze on the side of my face, a weight that’s hard to ignore as I look down at the rings on display.

Once Mr. Bellini retreats to the back, the air between us grows thick with tension.

“It’s not about what I like. It’s more about what you can live with, Norina . Because once the ring is on your finger, there’s no taking it off.”

I don’t like the slight mocking edge at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” He shrugs. “It seems that everyone else does. Something that will need to stop once you’re Mrs. Lucchese.”

“They will stop, and you don’t need to start. It’s just people who have known me since I was a child who call me that.” I sigh, “As for the ring, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just not my style.”

“Okay, fine. What do you like then?”

I half expected him to make me wear the ring he wanted me to wear. The one that showed status, but he’s giving me the choice. At least, I think he is.

He remains silent, unmoving, almost like a statue, as I look at the rings in the display case.

I make a micro stop at one of the displays before continuing. The ring’s design catches my eye—delicate yet distinct, unlike anything I’ve seen before.

“Which one?” he asks, his voice cutting through my thoughts. It’s unbelievable how he doesn’t miss a thing. That level of attention makes me a bit apprehensive, leaving me to wonder, not for the first time, if choosing him is the right decision.

But then, I think of Leo—superficial and dumb. Just the thought of him makes me grimace again. There’s no comparison, really.

The tension between us is palpable as Rafaele’s attention remains fixed on me, unwavering. It’s like he’s searching for something, trying to understand me in a way that feels both unsettling and intimate.

“You like one. Which one is it?” he insists, his tone softer this time but still carrying that unmistakable command.

I take a deep breath and point to the ring that had caught my eye. The band is sleek, platinum, with a brilliant round diamond at the center, flanked by two pear-shaped violet gemstones that add an unexpected touch of color. Beneath the center stone, a tiny, almost imperceptible red accent glints in the light, a detail so subtle that it feels like a secret just for me.

He studies it for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing its significance. Then he turns to me, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Interesting choice.”

I can’t tell if he’s pleased or if there’s something more behind his words, but there’s no mistaking the connection I feel to the ring—a connection that feels strangely reassuring, as if picking this ring, this moment, is a step toward something real.

“Are you sure you don’t want something bigger? These stones are quite small,” he questions, his voice holding an edge of curiosity.

“They’re perfect,” I reply, the certainty in my voice surprising even me.

“Are they?” he asks again, almost as if testing my resolve.

I nod, meeting his gaze. “Yes. Not everything needs to be over the top to be meaningful.”

“Indeed.” He presses the button to call Mr. Bellini back, his eyes never leaving mine.

When the jeweler reappears, Rafaele points to the ring I’ve chosen. “We want to see this one.”

Mr. Bellini raises an eyebrow but quickly recovers, smiling as he retrieves the ring from the case. “Oh, quite a different choice. This is only one carat with violet sapphires. Far more discreet.” He then smiles warmly as he extends it to me. “Very you, actually.”

Before I can reach for it, Rafaele’s hand darts out, catching the ring first. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slides it onto my finger. The cool metal feels foreign, but the ring settles perfectly into place, as if it belonged there.

“It suits you,” Rafaele says, his voice softer now, as though he’s made some internal decision.

I glance down at the ring, the understated yet elegant design reflecting a part of me I hadn’t expected him to see. “It does,” I agree, the words carrying more significance than I anticipated.

Mr. Bellini beams, clearly pleased with the choice. “A perfect fit, if I may say so.”

Rafaele nods as he releases my hand. “We’ll take it.”

As Mr. Bellini moves to finalize the purchase, I can’t help but admire the ring on my finger. This ring, small and unassuming, feels more meaningful than anything grander would. It’s a step toward something real—something that, despite all the uncertainties, feels like it just might work.

There may not be love, but the way Rafaele acted—taking my opinion into account, actually being attuned to my needs—gives me a glimmer of hope. I may not be happy, but perhaps I can be comfortable in a union that has the potential to grow into mutual respect.

It’s a small comfort, but in a world as unforgiving as ours, it feels like a significant victory.

“What now?” I ask him as we exit the jewelry store, and Paolo’s eyes immediately go to the ring on my finger, his eyebrows raising slightly.

“Now I drive you home,” Rafaele replies, as if it’s the most logical next step.

“Oh,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment. I had hoped that this outing might lead to more—a chance to get to know him better, maybe talk about something other than duty. But Rafaele’s mind seems to be on a completely different track.

Paolo, who has been watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement, clears his throat. “Boss, don’t you think you should, I don’t know, spend a bit more time together? Maybe grab a coffee or something?”

Rafaele gives Paolo a blank look, clearly puzzled by the suggestion. “Why? I’ve taken care of what needed to be done. The ring is chosen. Now we can move on.”

Paolo looks at him silently.

Rafaele frowns slightly, glancing at me as if trying to gauge whether this is something I actually care about. “Is that something you’d want? Coffee?”

“Not if you have something important to do, it’s okay.”

“Okay, then it’s settled. Let us drive you home.”

Paolo looks as though he’s about to protest, but he holds his tongue and simply sighs with a shake of his head as he opens the back door to usher us in.

As we settle into the back seat, there’s an awkward silence that Paolo seems to find particularly entertaining. He catches Rafaele’s eye in the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow as if to say, “Well?”

Rafaele clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation. “So… Do you like coffee?” he asks, the question so painfully mundane that I almost laugh.

“Not particularly. I’m more of a tea person. If I ever have coffee, it’s with so much creamer and sugar that it’s no longer coffee.” I grimace. “Please don’t have my Italian card revoked.”

He nods. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Is that an attempt at a joke from him? It seems like it, but his face is this impossible cool mask.

“What about you? Do you like coffee?”

He looks at me for a moment as if the question genuinely surprises him. “I don’t really drink much coffee.”

Paolo, unable to resist, chimes in from the front. “Rafa prefers his mornings with a straight shot of espresso—no-nonsense, just like him.”

I smile at that, finding the idea of Rafaele being so straightforward oddly endearing. “That suits you.”

He shrugs, clearly not used to this kind of casual conversation. “It gets the job done.”

The car ride continues in a somewhat tense silence, the conversation sputtering out as quickly as it began. Rafaele seems content to let it die, his attention already drifting elsewhere, likely back to whatever business dealings he’s mentally prioritizing. Paolo, on the other hand, looks like he’s holding back laughter, thoroughly amused by the awkwardness in the air.

As we pull up to my house, I realize that our time together is coming to an end, and I haven’t really learned anything about the man I’m supposed to marry. The thought leaves me feeling unsettled, like there’s something important slipping through my fingers.

“We should probably meet again,” I suggest, hoping to sound casual. “You know, to discuss dates and details for the wedding.”

Rafaele turns to me, his expression neutral but his eyes slightly narrowed, as though he’s trying to figure out why that would be necessary. “I think our fathers are already on top of that,” he replies, his tone as pragmatic as ever. “But if you have any special requirements or preferences, let me know. I’ll make sure they happen.”

The offer is so matter-of-fact, so businesslike, that it takes me a moment to realize it’s a genuine attempt to be considerate. I force a smile, trying not to feel too disappointed. “Of course. I’ll let you know if there’s anything.”

He nods, satisfied with the answer, and the car comes to a stop. Paolo is out of the car in an instant, opening the door for me. As I step out, Rafaele remains seated, clearly ready to move on to his next task.

“Thank you,” I say, turning back to him. “For the ring and for taking the time.”

He inclines his head slightly, the barest acknowledgment before he looks away, signaling to Paolo that they’re ready to leave.

I close the door, and I’m about to turn away when Rafaele rolls down the window, extending a sleek black card toward me. “Here,” he says, his tone as neutral as ever. “This is my cell number. Call or text if you think of anything.”

I take it, surprised by the gesture. It feels oddly personal coming from him. “Of course,” I reply, trying to keep the gratitude out of my voice. “Let me give you mine.”

He shakes his head before I can even reach for my phone. “No need.”

The quick dismissal stings a little, deflating the small bubble of connection I’d felt. But then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “I already have it.”

The words startle me, and I find myself blinking at him, unsure how to respond. Before I can say anything, he nods slightly like the matter is settled, and the window rolls up, cutting off the conversation.

I’m left standing there, the black card still in my hand, watching as the car drives away. The interaction was brief, almost clinical, but the fact that he already has my number feels significant in a way I can’t quite explain.

It’s a small moment, a subtle acknowledgment that despite his cold exterior, Rafaele is paying attention—to me, to this arrangement, to the details that make up our complicated situation.

As I turn back to the house, the ring on my finger catches the light, and I clutch the card a little tighter. Maybe this marriage will be more than just a business deal. Maybe there’s more to Rafaele Lucchese than meets the eye.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to navigate this strange new world with him by my side.