Chapter 2 (Luca's POV)

(Luca's POV)

She looked small when she slept. Bite marks covered her neck, bruises bloomed across her chest, and her inner thighs—I looked away.

I hadn't lost control like that in a long time.

The drug had worn off hours ago, but the anger had turned into something colder. Disappointment.

She didn't know I'd seen her before.

That night at the track, she wasn't like this.

Two years ago. Underground racing circuit. I was in the second-floor VIP box smoking a cigar, watching idiots risk their necks on the straightaway.

Bored out of my mind.

I was about to leave when a gray modified Mustang cut inside on the bend—the drift angle so sharp I forgot to flick the ash off my cigar.

That car blew past my guy's AMG like it was standing still.

When it stopped, a woman stepped out. Beautiful enough to make me hold my breath. I can still tell you what she wore—a dark green slip dress. Half the men in that place were staring.

Some asshole catcalled her. She flipped her hair, gave him the finger, and told him to go fuck himself without missing a beat.

That was the moment I thought: If I ever take a wife, it should be a woman like that.

Wild. Proud. Radiant.

Then the Caruso family fell. When the marriage contract landed on my desk, I didn't hesitate.

Everyone assumed it was a political play—using an old-blood name to polish my own. Only I knew the truth. I'd fallen for that woman at first sight.

I'd even spent six months finding out what she drank, that she had a bad stomach, that she was allergic to mango.

That's why, last night, when she was holding that glass of whiskey, I took it from her hands and drank it myself.

Like a goddamn fool.

My gaze dropped to her pale fingers—the same fingers that let those pills roll into the glass.

Her motive didn't need guessing. Her grandmother's medical bills. If the engagement fell through, she'd have nothing.

She treated me like an obstacle to be dealt with. Drugs and her body—that was her solution.

Exactly like Lia.

That thought cut through something I'd assumed had scarred over long ago. A dull blade, slow and deliberate.

Three years ago, Lia sat on the edge of my bed wearing my shirt.

The next morning, she was gone.

I used every resource I had to find her—underworld, law enforcement, private investigators. It took three months before I picked up her trail at the edge of some casino town in Europe.

She didn't want to be found.

Used by a woman's body, then discarded. I've never told anyone about that.

Would Elena run too? Once her grandmother's treatment was secured, would she vanish one morning without a trace?

No.

I would not let that happen a second time.

"Mm..."

A soft sound. She was finally waking up.

I watched her eyes flutter open, taking several seconds to focus on me. She pulled the covers up instinctively, hiding her chest. The movement tugged at something lower, and she sucked in a sharp breath of pain.

That sound made my fingers tighten. I ignored it.

"Nice performance," I said.

Her eyes went wide, slowly.

I watched fear, confusion, and desperate need to explain flash across her face—each emotion perfectly timed. If I hadn't lived through last night myself, I might have believed it.

"Even if this marriage stands," I stood, looking down at the woman still trying to fool me with that innocent expression, "I will never touch you again."

Her face went white.

"What?" I let out a cold laugh. "You were so calculating last night, and now you're playing the victim?"

She shook her head frantically. "It's not what you think. I really didn't put... that kind of drug—"

I didn't want to hear it. I closed my eyes.

"Get out."

She tried to sit up. Failed. Good. Let her feel the consequences.

I leaned down, grabbed her arm, and dragged her off the bed.

Her knees hit the floor hard. She curled in on herself, breathing ragged, but still whispering: "Luca..."

"Don't say my name." I released her like shaking off something filthy, staring down. "The Marino family doesn't keep dead weight, and it doesn't keep whores who scheme their way into a man's bed. Since you wanted in so badly, you can start by learning the rules."

I walked to the door and pulled it open.

Several people already stood outside. At the front was the head housekeeper—a woman who despised anyone who broke protocol.

I waved a hand. "Take her. Teach her how things work in this house."

The housekeeper bowed her head immediately. "Yes, Don."

At dinner, my grandmother cut her steak with slow precision. "Don't push too hard after the wedding. The Caruso girl is thin-skinned."

I took a sip of wine.

"I know what I'm doing."

A familiar hand reached past me. I turned to see Elena in a gray servant's dress, serving my plate.

She looked impossibly pale. It had only been one afternoon of learning the rules—how could she be this weak already?

Acting again.

"Who told you to come in here?" I said coldly.

The air went still.

The housekeeper stepped forward. "Don, the kitchen was short-handed, she—"

"I wasn't asking you." My eyes stayed locked on Elena. "You showed up in front of me on purpose. What do you want?"

Her lips moved. "I just wanted to ask—my grandmother—"

"Ask what?" I let one corner of my mouth lift in a thin sneer. "Whether last night was satisfying enough? Or did you want to remind everyone here how pitiful you are?"

The blood drained from her face.

"I didn't—!"

"Go back to your room." I cut her off. "Don't come running to me to play the victim. It's pathetic."

Someone at the table laughed softly. I didn't bother checking who. Maybe more than one.

Her hands clenched into fists. But she said nothing. Turned and walked away.

I won.

But I only felt more restless.

I turned to Marco. "Go tell her—her grandmother was transferred to the private care ward this morning. The medical team is the best cardiac unit in New York. Everything's been paid. She'll be fine."

My grandmother glanced up at me. Something like a smile crossed her face.

I looked down, cutting into my steak. My voice stayed cold. "I just hate listening to women cry."

After dinner, I went back to the study.

It wasn't until I sat down that I noticed my hand was shaking. I picked up the whiskey glass; a few drops spilled over the rim. I slammed it on the desk and closed my eyes.

All I could see was her white face. The way she'd curled up in pain.

She deserved it. I would not go soft.

An hour later, Marco knocked and entered.

"Done?" I asked.

"Yes." He kept his head down. "Miss Elena cried. But then... she smiled. Said to thank you."

Tch. Stupid woman.

"One more thing, Boss." He paused. "Mr. Adrian called. He's learned the wedding date and wants to return to New York for the ceremony."

My pen stopped mid-signature.

"Tell him there's no need."

Marco hesitated. "Sir, the senator said that as a family elder, he should—"

"I said no." My voice cut like a blade.

Marco didn't push further. He nodded and left.

The study fell silent.

I opened the left-hand drawer, reached to the very bottom, and pulled out a photograph.

Sixteen-year-old me on the far right, hands in my pockets, expression begging to be punched.

Adrian in the middle at twenty, smiling gently, his arm around a woman. Claire. She wore a ballet costume, standing on pointe, brown hair swept into a bun, her smile bright as the sun.

Claire died in a car accident three years ago. Adrian still hadn't come back from it.

I stared at her face.

Brown hair. Dark eyes. The way the corners of her mouth curved up when she smiled.

...Too similar.

That man had been without Claire for three years.

Three years of turning himself into a walking political machine, using his senator title and that flawless smile to cover the wound beneath.

If he saw Elena—

I shut the drawer. Locked it.

He couldn't come back. I would not allow anyone to take Elena from me.

She wasn't Claire. And she wouldn't become another Lia.

She wasn't going anywhere.

Except by my side.