Page 13 of Of Oaths and Secrets

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, myattempt to navigate this new and unsettling dynamic between us.

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

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