Page 23 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
The words are innocuous, but something in the way he says them makes my stomach flutter. Strength for what?
I pick up a slice of brioche and spread it with ricotta, the creamy texture melting on my tongue with the sweetness of honey. Across the table, Luca takes his time with his espresso, his gaze flicking to me occasionally, studying me like he’s still deciding something.
“Do you like it?” he asks after a moment.
“It’s...very good,” I admit, and that would be an understatement.
He nods, satisfied, and leans back in his chair. “Good.”
The conversation doesn’t flow so much as it exists in fractured moments, an observation from Luca, a polite response from me. All the while, I can’t help but notice how he operates, how even at breakfast, he seems to be working.
Men come and go quietly, their footsteps barely audible on the marble as they murmur updates into Luca’s ear. He listens with a steady focus, his expression unreadable, nodding occasionally or giving a brief order in Italian. His attention never wavers, but I see the weight of it—the way power and responsibility coil around him like chains, heavy but well-worn.
I sip my cappuccino, trying to absorb it all—the room, the food, the man I’ve married. A man comes in, heads for Luca, and says something to him in an undervoice. Whatever he says earns a glance that turns the blood in my veins to ice. There's no shift in posture, no raised voice, only that look; level, unreadable, and so cold it seems to still the very air.
Luca says something in return, low and almost idle, and the man responds with a shake of the head. I miss the name thatfollows, but it barely seems to matter. The moment it leaves his lips, something changes. Luca reaches for the fork beside his plate, the same one he used moments ago to spear a piece of melon. His grip changes, and without lifting himself from the chair, without raising his voice or giving a single warning, he turns and drives the fork into the man’s neck.
The motion is so clean it barely disrupts the tablecloth.
The man stiffens, a gurgle rising in his throat, eyes wide in disbelief. His hand flies up too late, fingers scrabbling against skin slick with blood. There is no shouting, no chaos. Just the sound of the fork being pulled free and placed neatly back beside Luca’s plate, its tines streaked red.
I can’t breathe.
The man slumps to the floor, blood pooling beneath him, and Luca turns back to the table as though nothing has happened. He picks up his espresso, takes a sip, and meets my horrified gaze. “He made a mistake,” Luca says simply, his voice calm, as though explaining why the weather has turned. Moments later, two of his lieutenants enter and drag the body away and maids file in behind them and begin working on cleaning the mess left behind.
The bile rises in my throat, the rich taste of brioche suddenly cloying. I push my plate away, my hands trembling as I try to steady myself.
“You didn’t have to?—”
“Eat,” Luca interrupts, his tone cool, but the coolness carries teeth.
I can’t, so I push the food around my plate until breakfast is officially over. Somehow, the day moves forward, though I feel like I’m watching it from outside myself. I’m led to another room—just as grand, just as stifling—where Donna Maria waits for me with a clipboard and an imperious air.
The hours blur into lessons on etiquette, household management, and the expectations of being a Salvatore wife. I memorize the proper way to address staff, the schedule for weekly meetings with the housekeeper, the protocol for hosting family dinners.
All of it feels distant, like someone else’s life, someone else’s cage.
By the time the sun dips low, painting the estate in warm hues, I’m bone-weary. My body aches, my mind races, and all I want is a moment to breathe. I return to my room.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I frown, picking it up. The number is unfamiliar. My first thought is Sofia… maybe she’s managed to get a new number and is calling to check on me.
But when I answer, the voice on the other end is one I don’t recognize.
“Mrs. Salvatore,” the man says, his voice low and calm, with a faint accent I can’t quite place.
Ice runs through my veins. “Who is this?”
“A well-wisher,” he replies smoothly, as if that explains anything. “Someone who knows you’re not where you want to be.”
I sit up straighter, gripping the phone tightly. “You have five seconds to tell me what this is about before I hang up.”
There’s a pause, then a soft chuckle. “You’re braver than I expected. Good. You’ll need that.”
The words twist something in my chest. I glance at the door, half-expecting Luca to walk in, his sharp gaze instantly reading the panic on my face. The thought alone makes me stand, pacing to the far side of the room where the light from the window spills in.
“I don’t have time for games,” I snap, trying to sound more in control than I feel.
“Then I’ll get to the point,” he says, his tone turning serious. “You don’t have to stay there, trapped in that life. I can help you leave, escape to another country, start over somewhere new. Somewhere Luca Salvatore will never find you.”
